


Silenced by the Night

by parkkate



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward First Times, Blindness, Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Muteness, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Pining, Romance, Scars, Sectumsempra Scars, deafness, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-03-23 09:37:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 55,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13784763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parkkate/pseuds/parkkate
Summary: After a spell goes horribly wrong, Harry has to deal with the loss of his eyesight. It’s such terrible timing, too, because how is he supposed to find out what Malfoy has been up to in the Room of Requirement? It’s not like he can ask the git, not only because it’sMalfoy, but also because the Slytherin has suddenly lost his voice. While they’re both trapped in the hospital wing, however, Harry discovers there’s so much he didn’t know about Malfoy, and it’s highly intriguing, but also a bit alarming. Where did all these confusing feelings come from all of a sudden? And what is Harry going to do about them?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I never thought this day would come. I can’t believe this thing is finally finished. There are no words to describe how much I love [FleetofShippyShips](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetofShippyShips/pseuds/FleetofShippyShips), who let me rant and freak out for hours, who helped me through this without complaining once. I love you so much! Thank you to my beta, [JET_Playin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JET_Playin/pseuds/JET_Playin), for your dedication, the time and effort you put into helping me with this disaster of a fic. I don’t know how to thank you! You’re not only the best beta I could have wished for, you’re an incredible friend and I love you so much! I feel so lucky to have you guys in my life! Lastly, I wouldn't have written this fic, if it weren't for this great fest. A big thank you to the mods for organizing it! This was an amazing idea!
> 
> Prompt: Harry and/or Draco have been cursed mute
> 
> Sadly, I do not own Harry Potter. All characters belong to J.K. Rowling.

_We were silenced by the night_  
_But you and I, we're gonna rise again_  
_Divided from the light_  
_I wanna love the way we used to then_  
_ Silenced by the night - Keane_

 

He’s panting. He’s trying to control himself. He mustn’t make any noise. It will give him away. He tries to concentrate. Hard. What should he do next? What will _he_ do next?

Before he can decide, he hears footsteps. Whoever is coming is approaching fast. The sound echoes harshly off the stone walls.

“Harry, what’s going on? Why are you here?”

“Ron, get out of the way!”

“Harry, what are you—”

“Ron, duck!”

He does, and a jinx barely misses him and blasts a hole in the wall behind them. Moaning Myrtle starts screaming and Harry suppresses the urge to yell at her to shut up.

“What the fuck is going on?” Ron shouts. He whirls around and draws his wand.

“Don’t! I’ve got this! You shouldn’t have followed me in here!”

“Harry—”

“Ron, for fuck’s sake!”

Harry grabs Ron’s sleeve and pulls him down into a crouch next to him in his hiding place. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, too many thoughts battling inside his head.

“Harry—”

With a swift hand pressed against Ron’s mouth, Harry silences him. He puts his index finger to his own lips, fixing his friend with a glare. And then he waits.

Nothing happens.

Slowly, he withdraws his hand from Ron’s mouth and shifts. He leans forward. He knows he’s risking exposure, but the silence in the room is eerie. Foreboding.

“Cruci—”

“Sectumsempra!”

Before Harry realises he's moved, Ron jumps forward and shouts, "Evanesco!”

Over the ringing in his ears, and Moaning Myrtle’s screaming, Harry hears a loud whooshing sound and he feels his wand vibrating. He blinks and sees Malfoy stumbling. The curse seems to have hit him, but something is off. A light bounces off Malfoy’s chest, almost like a lightning bolt. It races through the room and Harry notices there’s another light. For a moment, it seems like they are dancing around each other.

Then something happens. The two spells, fired by Harry and Ron, seem to be unifying, as if they’re deciding they’re stronger, can do more harm together.

“What is that?” Harry hears Myrtle murmur as she approaches the two lights. Her eyes are narrowed as she floats closer and closer to it. Something ripples through the air. Harry can feel it. It’s like a breeze before a thunderstorm. And then, the thunderstorm hits. The energy of the two spells seems to explode in a bright blue flash, right in the middle of the bathroom. Myrtle lets out an ear-piercing scream and for a moment, Harry thinks the explosion might have destroyed the ghost.

Malfoy is the first to get knocked off his feet by the backlash. Harry watches him fall backwards, as if in slow motion, the moment of shock etched on his face. Malfoy opens his mouth as if he’s about to scream, but there’s no sound. Harry’s eyes widen as he suddenly sees something red dripping from Malfoy’s chin, something red oozing through his shirt. Red everywhere.

Blood, Harry realises in shock. 

Malfoy falls with a dull ‘thud’. The sound shoots through Harry like a punch in the gut. He can’t take his eyes off the Slytherin as he’s lying on the floor, silently panting while more and more blood pools around him.

“No! No- I didn’t— ” Harry whispers. He wants to take a step forward, wants to scream, wants to fall to his knees and feel the pain of the cold stone floor hitting his joints. He doesn’t get to do any of it. The force of the two spells hits him and Ron brutally, sending them both flying through the air. Harry grunts as he lands on his stomach. He squeezes his eyes shut, as if that will lessen the pain. When he opens them again, he immediately knows something is wrong. He can’t see anything clearly, everything is a blur. Where are his glasses?

He feels around for them, finding something soft and warm instead.

“Ron? Ron, are you alright?”

Ron doesn’t answer. From what Harry can see, his limbs are stretched from his body at a very strange angle, and he seems to be unconscious.

Harry’s eyes dart over to the spot where he knows Malfoy is still lying. Bleeding. Dying. He can’t see more than a blurry silhouette on the floor. Before he knows what he’s doing, he screams at the tops of his lungs. He screams for help. He screams in agony. He tries to stay conscious, but the strange thing is, the more he tries to focus, the darker everything around him becomes. So he gives in and closes his eyes.

He hears footsteps again, several this time. Hushed whispers and gasps. He feels a hand on his shoulder. Someone says his name, asks if he’s okay. He’s confused, doesn’t understand what all the voices around him are saying. He can only think one thing.

_It’s too dark to see._

 

* * *

 

“Albus, what in Merlin’s name has happened to these boys?”

“It is very peculiar. I have never heard of such a thing. Mr Weasley didn’t respond to anything, you say, Poppy?”

There’s a huff and… a shuffling of feet.

“He was screaming like a mad man after he was brought in here,” Madam Pomfrey says with a sniff. “I thought we would have to restrain him, with the way he thrashed around. Didn’t listen to a word I said.” She pauses. “I don’t think he could hear me.”

“Albus, what does that mean?”

There’s a long sigh, full of dread.

“If only I knew, Minerva.”

“Potter and Weasley don’t seem to have the same wounds as Malfoy.”

“Yes, about that.” Dumbledore sounds unusually stern. “Severus, do you know what happened in that bathroom?”

Snape doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, it is probably under the scrutiny of Dumbledore’s piercing eyes.

“Headmaster, as you can see, I was able to prevent the worst—”

“The worst?” Madam Pomfrey gasps. “Have you looked at the boy? Have you seen the marks on his body? I’m doing the best I can, but there will undoubtedly be—”

“I am well aware, thank you,” Snape hisses. “He wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me.”

“Exactly,” Dumbledore agrees, but it doesn’t sound like praise. “You know the curse that hit him, don’t you, Severus?”

“Headmaster, I—”

“Severus!”

There’s a brief silence again, until someone, perhaps McGonagall, clears their throat.

“Severus, if you know what happened in that bathroom, you need to tell us. Otherwise we will have no way of helping them.” She sounds almost frantic. But why? What is going on? What makes all their voices quaver in fear like that?

“I don’t know what happened in that bathroom,” Snape finally says, emphatically. “But I do know what happened to Malfoy.”

“How?” McGonagall asks.

“Because I,” Snape takes a deep breath, “invented the curse that overpowered him.” Another pause. “The curse _Potter_ stupidly cast.”

Harry tenses. For the first time he realises he’s awake, listening to a real conversation. A conversation that took a turn Harry didn’t expect at all. It’s Snape? _Snape_ is the Half-Blood Prince? Harry keeps his eyes closed and his breathing even, despite the sudden feeling of horror crashing down on him. He wills himself not to panic, to lie still and listen.

“You invented that curse?” McGonagall echoes. “That vicious curse? Severus!” Her tone shifts from dumbstruck to accusatory. “What in the name of Merlin were you thinking? And how did Potter even learn that spell?”

“I assure you, nobody is more disgusted than I am that this is what nearly sliced Malfoy into pieces. However, it is not my fault Potter was foolish enough to use something he barely understands in a duel!”

“But why were they dueling in the first place?” Madam Pomfrey interjects.

Harry involuntarily flinches and immediately hopes nobody is paying any attention to him. What happened to Malfoy? From what Harry can gather, he at least seems to be alive. Barely. Harry’s chest tightens. That wasn’t his intention. He meant to incapacitate Malfoy, yes, but not kill him. And Ron… Ron can’t hear anything?

“Albus?” McGonagall hesitates. Her voice sounds much softer than before. Dumbledore sighs, and Harry can picture him, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“I think further discussion of the matter is in order. We should take this to my office and let these gentlemen get some rest. Severus, if you would be so kind as to accompany me.” He sounds stern again. “Poppy, where did you put their wands?”

“They’re in my office.”

“Good. But maybe, just to be safe, you should have them brought to my office instead. We don’t want to tempt anyone to return any favours. Minerva, would you please go to Filius’ and Horace’s chambers and ask them to join us?”

“Of course, Headmaster.”

Harry’s mind reels as the sound of hushed whispers and the teachers’ footsteps slowly fade. He nearly killed Malfoy. He nearly _killed_ Malfoy. If Harry had known what that spell would do, he never would have used it. Right?

He wants to think he’s better than that. Even if Malfoy is dangerous, as Harry suspects, even if he’s a Death Eater, of which Harry is sure, he doesn’t deserve to die like this. At Harry’s hands. Harry wouldn’t be able to live with himself. How could this have happened? Why didn’t Malfoy defend himself properly?

That’s when Harry remembers the incantation Malfoy nearly shouted.

_Crucio._

Malfoy almost flung an Unforgivable Curse at him, his face screwed up in panic and… and there were tears. Malfoy had been crying. Harry never found out why.

He feels something ice-cold in the pit of his stomach. It spreads rapidly through his body, like poison. Breathing becomes difficult and painful.

_What have I done?_

The sight of Malfoy’s tear-stained face will be forever etched in his memory. And he can’t shake the feeling that it’s going to haunt him. Maybe forever.

He doesn’t find much sleep that night. He tosses and turns as he dreams of a hazardous blue light and his hands covered in red.

 

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

 

At first, Draco thinks the curse has missed him. He doesn’t feel anything. He stumbles when something bounces off him. He watches the streaks of light chase each other through the room. He has never seen anything like it. And then, it happens. Pain, like he has never felt before, tears through him. It’s like his chest is being cut open by an invisible sword. He loses his balance, tumbles, until he’s struck by a violent force.

As he’s falling, his eyes lock with Potter’s. They’re wide and full of terror. Draco opens his mouth. His scream dies in his throat, forced down by the blood that’s spilling from his mouth. When he crashes onto the floor, he stares at the ceiling. He’s going to die. He can feel it. He’s going to die. Murdered by Harry Potter. If that isn’t a sick, ridiculous twist of fate. Draco never thought the _Chosen One_ would stoop so low. All this time, he had been afraid of what the Dark Lord might do to him, to his family, he never even thought about the possibility he could die at the hands of another. Least of all Saint Potter.

Draco gasps for air. The pain is becoming unbearable. As his body tries to fight through it, his mind wishes he were unconscious. Defeated by Potter, in a moment of weakness. His father would be disgusted by him. He would be even more disgusted if he knew Draco had been crying in a girls’ bathroom. And Potter had seen. He had seen it.

_You’re pathetic, Draco!_

It’s the last thought he has before he closes his eyes and welcomes the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Harry hears when he comes out of his doze is a loud crash. He jolts, instinctively clutching at his blanket. He opens his eyes. Except… he can’t. He tries again. And again. And again. His eyelids won’t move. Panic bubbles up inside him. Why can’t he open his eyes? What’s going on? His breathing becomes shallow, making him feel dizzy. He hears another crash, right beside him, making him jump.

“Mr Malfoy!” Madam Pomfrey sounds angry. “Mr Malfoy!”

Another crash. What’s going on?

“Mr Malfoy, please stop!”

“Madam Pomfrey,” Harry starts. His voice sounds hoarse. It hurts to speak.

“In a moment, Mr Potter,” Madam Pomfrey replies in a strained tone. It sounds like she’s struggling with something. “Mr Malfoy, please! Your wounds will open up again.”

Harry freezes. Malfoy’s wounds.

_His chest was bleeding._

The wounds aren’t healed yet. Malfoy is still suffering from whatever Harry did to him.

“Mr Malfoy,” Madam Pomfrey implores him, “I know this must be very disconcerting and confusing for you, but please…”

Harry wonders why Madam Pomfrey is the only one talking. Why isn’t Malfoy yelling at her? It sounds like he’s being restrained by her and yet, he hasn’t said a word.

“That’s it, that’s it. Now, be still while I go and fetch some more Dittany's essence. I’m warning you, don’t move Mr Malfoy! You’ll only make it worse.”

Nobody says anything for a while after that. Harry can hear Madam Pomfrey shuffling around, probably tending to Malfoy’s wounds. Tentatively, he clears his throat before he tries to talk to her again.

“Madam Pomfrey?”

“Yes, dear?”

“There’s— There is—”

_There’s something wrong with my eyes._

Harry has no idea how to say it. It sounds so stupid.

“What is it, Mr Potter?”

“I— I can’t open my eyes,” Harry finally says. Madam Pomfrey doesn’t say anything at first. She seems to be stock still, probably staring at him. It’s so strange to make these assumptions without knowing what’s really happening. Harry feels himself panic again. What if she can’t help him? What if he can’t see ever again?

“Okay, dear,” Madam Pomfrey says slowly, “not to worry.” Harry almost wants to snort, because everything in Madam Pomfrey’s voice indicates that she is very much worried indeed. “I’ll have the Headmaster informed. He’ll know what to do.”

Harry sighs and gives her a quick nod. He settles back down on his pillow and tries to even his breathing. The room is completely silent except for a soft snore, coming from behind Harry.

_Ron._

Harry would recognise that snore anywhere. It’s usually louder during the night. He concentrates on the sound, on the familiarity of it. It’s almost calming.

Still, there’s something unnerving in the air. It makes the hair on the back of Harry’s neck stand up. It almost feels like someone is watching him.

It’s hard to figure out the surroundings just by hearing, but Harry has been in the hospital wing enough times to at least take a guess at where they have put him. Madam Pomfrey hurried across the room for quite a bit before Harry heard the squeaking of the door. That must mean he’s at the far end, with Ron to his left side and to his right… Malfoy.

What exactly were the teachers thinking when they put them in adjacent beds? They nearly killed each other.

_No_ , Harry thinks with a cringe. He’s the only one who nearly killed someone. But, again, Malfoy was about to fire an Unforgivable Curse at him. That git. And now, he’ll probably try to kill Harry. At least the teachers confiscated their wands. But still, it would be so easy, being in the bed next to him and everything, for Malfoy to just silently slip out of bed at night and smother Harry to death with a pillow or something.

For now, at least, from what Madam Pomfrey said, it seems like Malfoy can’t move too much. But that doesn’t reassure Harry to the point of letting his guard down. He cornered Malfoy in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom for a reason. Malfoy is planning something. Something big; has been since the start of term. And he’s doing it for Voldemort. Malfoy said so himself, on the train ride to Hogwarts. He hasn’t succeeded yet, at whatever it is. But he’s working on it. And Harry has to stop him. He will stop him. No matter what it takes. And it will be so much easier, now that they’re trapped in the hospital wing together. He can finally prove to Ron and Hermione that he has the Dark Mark on his left forearm and—

With a burst of frustration, Harry realises that will be impossible. He can’t see anything. How is he supposed to spy on Malfoy when he can’t open his eyes?

_Damn it!_

This could have been his chance.

His thoughts are interrupted by the familiar squeaking noise of the hospital wing door and footsteps. They’re slow and determined, unlike Madam Pomfrey’s. But she seems to be there, too. Harry can hear her whispering agitatedly.

“... when I asked him this morning… I think he didn’t realise at first… maybe his voice is only strained at the moment…”

“No, Poppy. I think this is something else.” It’s Dumbledore. “Ah, Harry. You’re awake.”

“Hello, Professor,” Harry replies, sitting up. He almost feels sheepish for probably talking to the air, not quite knowing where Dumbledore is standing.

“How are you feeling?” Dumbledore asks. Harry isn’t sure how to answer that. Usually, he would have just said ‘fine’, even if it wasn’t true. In his experience, people don’t really care. But he knows Dumbledore is asking because he genuinely wants to know, and even if Harry lied, Dumbledore would probably see right through him. So Harry decides to ignore the question.

“Professor, I can’t— My eyes, I can’t—”

“Yes,” Dumbledore says calmly. “Madam Pomfrey has told me.”

Harry waits for him to continue, getting more and more nervous when he doesn’t.

“Professor, do you know what happened to… us?”

“I’m afraid it’s too early to give a conclusive diagnosis.” He pauses. “Harry, would you mind if I tried something?”

“What?” Harry asks warily.

“Just a quick spell that may help me understand why you are unable to open your eyes.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Harry trusts Dumbledore. With his life. If he isn’t able to figure out what’s going on, nobody will. He waits for the incantation, holds his body as still as possible. Suddenly, he feels a weird tingling sensation on his face. Dumbledore must have used a nonverbal spell. The tingling increases, and it gets uncomfortable. Harry wrinkles his nose, and just as suddenly as it came, the sensation is gone. His heart rate picks up in anticipation of what Dumbledore is going to say next.

“Mr Malfoy,” he hears Dumbledore say, “would you let me do the same to you?”

Malfoy says nothing, but the silence that follows makes Harry think he agreed, and that Dumbledore is performing the spell on him now. He hears Dumbledore move to his other side, indicating he’s now doing the same to Ron, who is still asleep.

Harry hears a sigh, which doesn’t make him feel very hopeful.

“Professor?”

“I’m sorry, Harry. I’m afraid we will need to have a deeper look into the matter. All the teachers are trying their best.”

Harry nods glumly, and then jumps when he feels a warm hand on his.

“I’m sorry.” Somehow, it doesn’t feel right for Dumbledore to console him.

“It’s my fault, Professor. I was the one who— You should be yelling at me. You should expel me.”

Dumbledore doesn’t say anything to that. He simply pats Harry’s hand. It doesn’t feel comforting. It’s irritating.

“Don’t you want to know what happened?” Harry bursts out. Dumbledore stops patting him, but he doesn’t withdraw his hand.

“We talked to Moaning Myrtle.”

“Oh.” At least that means she’s fine. Although Myrtle’s version of the story might be a hundred times more dramatic than what actually happened. As if it hadn’t been dramatic enough.

“But we’re still missing some details,” Dumbledore continues. “We know the curse you cast, Harry.” He ignores Harry’s flinching. “But we’re still not sure how it might have lead to this.”

“Well,” Harry starts, swallowing hard. “Mal— Ron cast a spell as well.” Harry doesn’t know what stops him from telling Dumbledore about Malfoy and the Unforgivable Curse. Maybe he should tell him. Then again, Malfoy hadn’t succeeded in casting it, so it doesn’t matter. Not to get to the bottom of this anyway.

“Do you remember what spell it was?” Dumbledore asks. Harry tries to think, tries to remember. Everything happened so fast.

“No,” he says after a moment, lowering his head.

“Don’t lose hope. Hope is the only thing worth fighting for.”

“Not love?” Harry asks before he can stop himself. Dumbledore is probably smiling at him.

“Love without hope is a rather cruel concept, don’t you think?” Harry frowns as he hears Dumbledore cross the room and open the door.

“Oh, Professor!”

“Miss Granger.”

“I’m sorry, but can I please see them now? Madam Pomfrey hasn’t allowed anybody in yet. But please, Professor, I—”

“They need rest,” Madam Pomfrey declares.

“Yes, Poppy, they do,” Dumbledore agrees. “But I think a quick visit might be exactly what the patients need right now.” Harry can picture Dumbledore’s face, smiling gently at Hermione, his eyes twinkling.

“Thank you, Professor,” Hermione says, and Harry hears her footsteps as she approaches. “Oh, Ron,” she whispers, and Harry’s heart clenches. He should have sent Ron away. He shouldn’t have let him put himself in danger like that. It had been Harry’s decision to follow Malfoy. It had been his battle, not Ron’s. He feels tears of anger form in his eyes and he stubbornly tries to hold them back.

When he feels a hand on his shoulder, he tries to smile, but he knows it’s not convincing.

“Hey, Hermione.”

“Oh, Harry, you’re awake!” Harry’s heart clenches again at her excitement.

“Yeah. Have been for a while, actually.”

There’s a brief silence, and Harry can only imagine the excitement draining from Hermione’s face as she studies Harry.

“Harry—”

“I can’t open my eyes,” he says quietly, for what feels like the hundredth time.

“What do you mean, you can’t open your eyes?”

“I mean it quite literally,” Harry mutters.

It takes Hermione a few moments to say something. Before she does, she squeezes his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I heard what happened. I was listening in when the teachers questioned Myrtle.”

Harry shifts uncomfortably in his bed. Hermione is probably going to yell at him sooner or later. She’ll probably call him all sorts of names. And she probably would be right in doing so. But aside from that, Harry is mostly relieved Hermione already knows. He’s not in the mood to recount that incident, especially while Malfoy is probably listening to every word he says. Which is why Harry motions for Hermione to come closer, and when she does, he whispers in her ear, “Can you do me a favour?”

“What is it?” she whispers back.

“Go to my dorm and get my copy of ‘Advanced Potion-Making’. And then, get rid of it.”

“Harry,” she gasps. “Did you use another spell from that book?” She pauses. “Is that what you used on Malfoy?”

Harry doesn’t answer, which seems to be enough confirmation for her.

“Harry!” He flinches. “I can’t believe you did that! You almost killed someone! What were you thinking? Malfoy almost died!”

“Hermione,” Harry says weakly. “I— I know.”

There’s a brief silence. Harry wonders if Hermione is going to yell at him again.

“Don’t you think we should give that book to the teachers, so they—”

“They already know,” Harry hisses. “Snape told them. He’s the one who invented the spell. He’s—”

“He’s the Half-Blood Prince,” Hermione says breathlessly, finishing his sentence. “Oh my god. Oh my _god_ , Harry—”

“Shhh Hermione! Will you keep it down?” Harry chastises her.

“But Harry,” she says, lowering her voice again, “that spell nearly killed Malfoy.”

“I know,” Harry says, his stomach giving a violent jolt. “Do you believe me now? Snape is evil!”

“I don’t know, Harry. We’ve had this conversation a million times. Dumbledore trusts him. He was obviously much younger when he came up with that spell and—”

Harry tries to interrupt her, but she talks over him. “I’m not saying I approve of it. I’m simply saying that—” She stops abruptly. A second later, Harry has a suspicion why. There’s a low moan to his left.

“Ron!”

Harry feels Hermione leaving his side and there’s an immediate grunt.

“Ow! Hermione! You’re squishing me! Wha— What is—?” Suddenly, Ron sounds panicky. “Why can’t I hear— CAN YOU HEAR ME, HERMIONE?”

“Ron! Stop screaming! I can hear you perfectly fine.”

“WHAT?”

“I said—”

“WHAT?”

“Ron!”

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU! I CAN’T HEAR ANYTHING! HERMIONE, WHAT IS GOING ON?”

“You can’t— Oh no.”

“WHAT IS THIS? WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?”

“Ron, calm down. Please. It’s going to be okay.”

Harry doesn’t know why she bothers telling him this. Maybe she’s trying to calm down herself, rather than him. Whatever she’s doing seems to be working. When Ron speaks again, it’s at a normal volume.

“What’s happening to me, Hermione?” He sounds scared.

“I don’t know, Ron. I don’t know.”

“Harry,” Ron suddenly yelps. “WHERE’S HARRY?”

“He’s right here,  Ron.”

“HARRY! ARE YOU OKAY?”

“I’m okay, mate,” Harry says, and quickly nods when he remembers Ron won’t exactly be able to read his lips.

“WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOUR—”

“For god’s sake Ron, will you STOP SCREAMING!” Hermione doesn’t lose her temper often, but when she does, she looks quite scary. That’s probably what’s shutting Ron up for the moment.

Harry hears some rustling and then… scratching… like a quill on parchment.

“Can’t see?” Ron sounds dumbstruck. “But he can hear? Do you think it has something to do with that blue light?”

“Blue light?” Hermione echoes.

“Oh, Hermione,” Harry interjects, remembering his earlier conversation with Dumbledore. “Ask him what spell he used!”

“What?”

“Ask him what spell he used in the bathroom.”

Harry hears scratching again and a second later, Ron mutters, “Evanesco.”

“Evanesco?” Hermione repeats, her voice sounding shrill. It also sounds like she just stomped her foot.

“It was the only thing I could think of,” Ron says defensively. “You talked about that spell that morning and… I panicked!”

Hermione makes a sound that almost sounds like she’s whining.

“Ron,” she exclaims, exasperatedly. “You’re not supposed to use that on people!”

“What?” Ron says, raising his voice. “I can’t hear you, remember?”

There’s that scratching noise again, and Harry finally realises Hermione must be writing down what she wants to say, for Ron to read.

“Oh,” Ron mutters. “But we learned how to use the spell on animals.”

Hermione sighs. “Be that as it may, you can’t just go around vanishing people.” Then she adds, muttering under her breath, “And I’m pretty sure you did it incorrectly.”

“Is that why I can’t hear anything?” Ron gasps. “Did I vanish my hearing?”

“I don’t think it’s as easy as that,” Hermione murmurs.

“Wait, what does that spell do?” Harry asks.

“It’s a vanishing spell,” Hermione explains. “We learned that in second year, remember?”

“Oh.” Harry doesn’t remember.

“Professor Snape used it to vanish your potion,” Hermione adds.

“Oh!” He definitely remembers that. “But then… don’t you think Ron is right? Don’t you think it’s possible he vanished his hearing and… my eyesight?”

“I’m not sure if that’s possible. That’s not what the spell usually does.”

“Yeah but, Hermione, what happened in that bathroom… I haven’t seen anything like it.”

“I heard Myrtle describe it,” Hermione says thoughtfully. “But still. I don’t know how that spell could—”

“But think about it,” Harry interrupts her. “It seems to have taken something from each of us. Ron can’t hear, I can’t see and Malfoy can’t speak, so—

“Hold on, Malfoy can’t speak?”

Harry drops his voice to a whisper.

“Be quiet, he’ll hear you!”

“He’s asleep,” Hermione whispers back. Harry doubts that. He’s probably faking it. He motions to Hermione to come closer again.

“I heard Madam Pomfrey and Dumbledore talk. I can’t be sure, but… Malfoy hasn’t said a single word.”

“So… you’re saying… he’s mute?”

“I guess so.”

“So Malfoy is mute… Ron is deaf and you’re… you’re blind.” Something seems to have clicked in Hermione’s mind. Harry can hear it in her voice.

“What?” Harry asks, a little irritated. “What is it?”

“I have to go to the library,” Hermione exclaims.

“Of course you do,” Harry mutters to no one, because, surely enough, Hermione has already rushed out of the hospital wing.

 

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

 

Draco scoffs soundlessly when Dumbledore enters the hospital wing and walks straight over to Potter. Of course. Golden Boy needs some coddling. It’s disgusting. He tries to avoid eye contact with Dumbledore, suddenly feeling heat rising up in his chest. Still, he watches out of the corner of his eye as he points his wand at Potter and narrows his eyes in concentration. Shivering, Draco turns away. Somehow, he’s almost afraid the old wizard will be able to realise what Draco is up to, just by looking at him. And Draco doesn’t really want to see the face of the person he’s supposed to—

“Mr Malfoy, would you let me do the same to you?”

Draco’s eyes widen at being directly addressed by him. He keeps his eyes on his hands.

_That stupid old fool!_

If he knew what was going to happen to him, he wouldn’t try to help Draco. He would leave him here, in the hospital wing, unable to carry out his task.

_But then, the Dark Lord will kill me. And mother. And father._

Draco shivers again, and against his better judgement, he nods. Something tingles in his throat while Dumbledore screws up his face in concentration. After a moment, he sighs. He points his wand at Weasley before he turns back to Potter again.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I’m afraid we will need to have a deeper look into the matter. All the teachers are trying their best.”

_Maybe they’ll be too late. Maybe I’ll already be dead by then_ , Draco thinks. _Snape should have just let me die on that bathroom floor. Why did he have to interfere?_

When Draco hears what Dumbledore says next, he stiffens. It’s almost as if Dumbledore is talking to him. As if Dumbledore has read his mind.

“Don’t lose hope. Hope is the only thing worth fighting for.”

Draco lets out a quiet gasp and his eyes involuntarily wander over to where Dumbledore is standing.

“Not love?” he hears Potter ask.

Dumbledore smiles and his gaze finds Draco’s, his eyes piercing him.

“Love without hope is a rather cruel concept, don’t you think?”


	3. Chapter 3

It’s been days since Hermione ran out of the hospital wing, intent on going to the library. She hasn’t shown up again, which Harry tries to interpret as a good sign. She’s researching. Dumbledore hasn’t come back either. After he left, Harry realised they should have talked about the horcruxes. Then again, they had too big of an audience for that.

The mystery of the commonly occurring crashing sound beside Harry’s bed is lifted when Ron screams at Malfoy to stop smashing all the vases and glasses. If Madam Pomfrey hadn’t intervened, there probably would have been another fight. And that is about the most interesting thing that has happened over the last few days.

Well, there have been a few horrifying things as well. Like discovering it’s impossible to go to the bathroom alone when you can’t see where you’re going. Harry realises it doesn’t matter that he has been in the hospital wing a million times and theoretically knows where he’s supposed to go. The bathroom isn’t even that far from his bed. He just has to walk in a straight line to reach it, but he’s suddenly so uncoordinated, he can’t do it.

It’s a very humbling experience. Not only having to inform Madam Pomfrey that nature is calling, but also having her accompany him and bring him into the right position, so he won’t… miss. He only lets her do it once. After that, he makes the matron write down a note for Ron, so he’ll take him instead. It’s still humiliating, but at least he’s making a fool out of himself in front of his best friend.

Besides that, there isn’t much to do around here. And Harry is so tired of _listening_ all the time. Since he can’t rely on his eyes anymore, his hearing seems to have become so much sharper, picking up things he never would have noticed before. Like the way Madam Pomfrey walks. She’s constantly bustling through the room with mincing steps. At first, he thinks it’s kind of endearing. Now, he wants to throw something at her every time she passes his bed.

But that’s not all.

Harry’s becoming wary, the persistent feeling of dread nagging away at him. Every time the door to the hospital wing squeaks open, he holds his breath.

What if it’s Dumbledore, telling him there’s no cure for them? What if it’s Snape, finally confronting him about how he knew about the Sectumsempra-spell? What if it’s the Slytherins, avenging Draco’s injuries?

He inevitably thinks of Professor Moody, yelling “Constant vigilance!”

Aside from the fact that he won’t be able to defend himself properly, if someone were to attack him in his current state, he really is exercising constant vigilance. Because it’s not only the door Harry keeps an eye on, or rather an ear, it’s also every single sound coming from the right side of the room. The side where Malfoy is lying in his bed, probably concocting a scheme that will make Harry’s gruesome death look like an accident. Surely, he’s just waiting for the right moment. But there’s only so much Harry can do about that.

He tries to think of other things, welcomes every distraction, because he’s bored out of his mind, and feels like he’s going insane. Several people have visited him; Dean, Seamus, Neville, but they didn’t stay long. Harry got the impression they were feeling a bit uncomfortable, talking to someone who constantly kept their eyes closed. Ginny was the only one who stayed for almost an hour. But that was mostly due to the fact that Hermione had told her about his copy of ‘Advanced Potion Making’ and she started to scold him about it. At least Hermione managed to get rid of it. Apparently, she took it to the Room of Requirement.

After Ginny finished her lecture, Harry tried to convince her to take over as Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team in their final match against Ravenclaw. She would have to play Seeker, and Dean would have to rejoin the team, replacing Ginny as Chaser. She was reluctant at first but, in the end, she agreed.

Since that conversation, Harry can’t stop thinking about the possibility that he might never play Quidditch again. A Seeker who can’t see the Snitch, who can’t see anything at all, isn’t exactly someone people are dying to have on their team. And flying! Flying alone will be impossible.

How is it that Harry has never appreciated how much his eyes are doing for him? _Were_ doing for him. He might never see Ron stuffing his face at breakfast again. Hermione’s disapproving glance over the book she’s currently reading. Ginny, smiling at him.

It’s frustrating, being trapped in the stupid hospital wing. He can’t move things forward with Ginny, he can’t help Dumbledore… he can’t do anything for Merlin’s sake! He made a bloody mess for himself. No, not just for himself. He dragged Ron down with him. And as relieved as Harry is that Malfoy is incapacitated, he still can’t shake the feeling of guilt that bubbles up inside him every time Madam Pomfrey checks on Malfoy’s wounds and comments on them. Apparently they’re mostly healed, but now Madam Pomfrey worries about the scarring.

 _Scarring,_ Harry thinks with a cringe. He has left scars on Malfoy’s body.

On more than one occasion, he’s grateful the Slytherin can’t speak. He’s not particularly keen on hearing all the nasty things he’d undoubtedly throw in his face. But it must be eating him up inside, not being able to scream at Harry for what he did to him.

There’s no doubt he hates Harry even more now. If that’s even possible. Well, Harry hates him just as much for all the things he has done to him and his friends. If the Slytherin hadn’t been such a git to him first, Harry would have had no reason to hate him like this. He would have been just another stupid bully, who thinks he’s better than everyone else. But he had singled out Harry and had made it his life’s mission to torture him on every possible occasion. Who wouldn’t want to retaliate?

 _And here we are again, thinking about Malfoy_ , Harry thinks grudgingly.

He lets out a sigh of frustration. Having too much time to think really sucks. It never leads to anything good. It always leaves him feeling depressed. Ugh, what he wouldn’t give for another visitor right now. Maybe then, he’d be allowed to leave this bloody room. He can’t sit or lie still any longer. He’d even be willing to read Hermione’s Transfiguration notes, just so that he’d be doing something. But he can’t even do that. What if he can’t ever do _anything_ again? This is driving him insane.

“Hey, Ron?” No answer. Of course there’s no answer. “Are you awake?”

He knows it’s pointless, that his friend can’t hear him. But he has to talk to _somebody_.

“Do you think Hermione has found something yet? I really hope she has. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I miss going outside. I miss flying. Ugh, I miss everything!” He buries his face in his hands and grunts. “I hate this!”

He presses his palms against his eyelids. Normally, little stars would be exploding in front of him. Nothing happens.

“Ugh, I hate this,” he repeats, a little louder this time. “We should at least be allowed to go outside. I don’t know why Madam Pomfrey insists we stay in here. We’re basically trapped. I feel like I’m suffocating.”

There’s an ear-piercing crash and Harry instinctively moves to the left. What was that? Was that Malfoy? Smashing another glass?

_It was probably his way of telling you to shut up._

“Something bothering you, Malfoy?” Harry asks. His voice sounds much more condescending than he intended. But he can’t help it. He’s irritated. “How about you mind your own bloody business?” he snaps. He grits his teeth, imagining what Malfoy would be saying to him right now.

_“I’d love to, Potter, but your incoherent babbling is giving me a headache. So why don’t you shut the fuck up before I hex you!”_

Harry sighs. Even fighting with Malfoy would be better than this. Well, maybe not. But still, doing nothing—

There’s another sound. Harry can’t place it. But he knows it’s Malfoy. It sounds like… paper… being ripped. What is he doing? Harry gets more and more frustrated. He’s not exactly yearning to see the pointy git’s face; he wouldn’t want to see it, even if it was the only thing he would be able to set eyes on for the rest of his life. But not knowing what he’s up to, even more so now, makes him want to bang his head against the headboard.

He straightens himself and turns his head, so he’s facing Malfoy.

“Stop that, whatever you’re doing.”

The ripping sound intensifies.

“Ugh, Malfoy!” Harry throws his hands up in the air in exasperation.

“What is it, Harry? DO YOU NEED TO GO TO THE BATHROOM?” Ron yells from the other side. Harry groans. This is ruddy ridiculous.

“No, mate, I’m fine, thanks.”

Before Ron can scream at him again, Harry shakes his head.

“Oh, okay. Well, I’m here whenever you need me.”

Harry nods, and then stops when he hears a rustling sound to his right. He can just picture Malfoy, a smirk on his face, soundlessly mocking Harry for his incapacity.

“Something funny, Malfoy?” he says waspishly. “I don’t hear anyone volunteering to help _you_.” He knows what he’s doing is wrong. He knows provoking Malfoy is the last thing he should be doing right now. But somehow, it feels good, despite the guilt that’s coiling in his gut.

“You know, now that I think about it, you haven’t had that many visitors since we have been brought here. None, to be exact.” Harry snorts. “I mean, your friends must have noticed that something rotten and nasty is missing from their midst. But maybe they don’t care enough to—”

Harry’s head whips to the side, a hot stinging sensation on his right cheek.

“Oi, Malfoy! What do you think you’re doing?” It sounds like Ron is getting out of bed. “That’s right, you bloody coward! GO AND HIDE IN THE BATHROOM!”

Instinctively, Harry raises his hand to trace his fingers over his still stinging skin.

“Are you okay?” Ron asks. He’s standing right next to Harry. Slowly, Harry nods. “That bastard,” Ron growls. Harry immediately wants to agree, call Malfoy all sorts of names. But…

 _No, Ron,_ Harry thinks, _I think I’m the bastard here._

“Just wait until he gets out of the bathroom! I’ll—”

Harry grabs the air until he finds Ron’s forearm. He squeezes it and shakes his head.

“What? You want him to get away with this?”

Harry nods.

“But why? Harry— Did you say something to him?”

Harry hesitates, feeling sheepish. After a moment, he nods, ever so slightly.

“Oh. Well. But still! He shouldn’t have slapped you!”

Sighing deeply, Harry pats Ron’s forearm before lying back down on the bed. He hears Ron return to his own. Part of him wholeheartedly agrees with his best friend. Who actually slaps a blind person? Wait, not blind. Just… unable to open his eyes.

_That’s beside the point. Remember how Malfoy, that arsehole, broke your nose? And now he slapped you! Slap him right back!_

Harry wants to. He really, really wants to. But… there’s this whole ‘you nearly killed him’ thing going on in his head again. And while he said all those things to Malfoy in mockery, he’s only starting to realise how much truth lies in his words. Nobody has come to visit Malfoy. Not a single one of his friends.

 _Are you actually feeling sorry for him now?_ Harry berates himself. _Have you forgotten all those times he made fun of you and your dead parents? Of Ron and his family? He keeps calling Hermione ‘Mudblood’!_

Harry grunts and turns around, so he’s facing Ron’s bed. He doesn’t hear Malfoy come out of the bathroom before he falls asleep.

 

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

 

Whose bloody brilliant idea was it to let Potter keep his voice? Honestly, this would be much more endurable if that tosser wouldn’t be able to talk as well. But no, Draco has to listen to every single word coming out of that dense prat’s mouth.

“... I miss flying. Ugh, I miss everything! I hate this!”

 _Not as much as me_ , Draco thinks, his fingers twitching.

“... we’re basically trapped. I feel like I’m suffocating.”

Before Draco knows what he’s doing, he takes the empty glass on his bedside table and smashes it. He sees Potter jump.

 _You should be thankful I didn’t throw that in your face, you wanker,_ he thinks darkly.

None of this would have happened if Potter hadn’t tried to play the hero again, consequently forcing Draco into the role of the villain. Up to recently, he wouldn’t have minded it much. He had always liked to be respected or even feared. But now… now he knows what it means to be the villain, what it requires. He’s not sure if he can go through with it. His last two attempts have failed, and he’s terrified to make another mistake. Another mistake could cost him the life of his mother. Or his father. Eventually, his own.

_Fuck Potter! Fuck him and his damned hero complex!_

“Something bothering you, Malfoy?” he hears Potter ask. “How about you mind your own bloody business?”

Draco balls his hands into fists.

_Fuck you, Potter!_

Now Draco really wants to throw something at him. But he knows that would only get him into trouble. So instead, he takes his Charms textbook, opens it at random and starts ripping out page after page.

“Stop that, whatever you’re doing,” Potter grumbles. Draco’s jaw clenches and he rips out the pages even more forcefully. It helps with the anger coursing through him, but he still feels the urge to take the book and toss it at Potter and his stupid scar.

“Ugh, Malfoy!”

“What is it, Harry?”

_Great, now Weasley’s joining in, too._

“DO YOU NEED TO GO TO THE BATHROOM?”

Draco is so sick of Weasley screaming. He almost wishes he was deaf himself. Then, he wouldn’t have to listen to either of those Gryffindor buffoons.

“Oh, okay,” Weasley mutters. “Well, I’m here whenever you need me.”

Draco rolls his eyes. Bloody loyal, disgusting Gryffindors. He looks at the ceiling, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He can’t wait to get out of here, even though it means he has to get back to his task. But the longer the Dark Lord has to wait…

Draco puts the textbook back on his bedside table, and punches his pillow in frustration.

“Something funny, Malfoy?” Potter says. His tone sounds sharp. “I don’t hear anyone volunteering to help _you_.”

And there it is again, the anger. It turns into fury.

“You know, now that I think about it, you haven’t had that many visitors since we have been brought here. None, to be exact.” Potter snorts. “I mean, your friends must have noticed that something rotten and nasty is missing from their midst. But maybe they don’t care enough to—”

Draco doesn’t even realise he has moved. He’s suddenly standing in front of Potter, his hand in the air. As the slap resonates through the room, and his hand begins to prickle, he locks eyes with Weasley.

“Oi, Malfoy! What do you think you’re doing?” Weasley throws back his covers and stomps over to them. Draco knows all too well that without his wand, standing up to Weasley is a very bad idea. He’s definitely not keen on spending another few weeks in this bloody room. So as much as he hates it, he hurries into the infirmary bathroom.

“That’s right, you bloody coward! GO AND HIDE IN THE BATHROOM,” he hears Weasley shout as he locks the door. He leans against it, panting.

_Fuck you, Potter!_

So what if Draco alienated all of his friends? Had they really been his friends to begin with? So what if he’s alone? He chose to do this alone. Potter has no idea what he’s talking about. He doesn’t know what’s going on.

_That nosy prat!_

Potter only gives him trouble. He always makes him angry. So angry. And, to make matters worse, going to this school while this twerp is around, means always getting the short end of the deal. Because everybody loves Saint Potter. It’s nauseating, really, to watch all those nitwits who worship the ground the wizarding world’s Golden Boy walks on, swooning whenever they see that atrocious bird’s nest Potter calls his hair.

What has Potter even done that’s so great? So he escaped the Dark Lord a few times, fought a dragon… that doesn’t make him special. It doesn’t make him a hero.

Slowly, Draco sinks down to the ground. He hugs his knees, feeling a burning sensation in his chest. He has no idea how long he’s sitting there like this. When he unlocks the door again, it’s completely dark outside. He walks over to his bed, trying to be as quiet as possible. He gives Potter’s sleeping figure one quick glance, before he climbs into his bed.

_Fuck you, Potter! You don’t know anything about me._


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh man, I’m starving!”

“Slow down, Ron. You’re going to choke.”

Ron snorts as if he understands what Hermione just told him. Harry pokes around on his plate, not really feeling like eating at the moment.

“It’s pork chops and mashed potatoes,” he hears Hermione say.

“Thanks,” Harry answers with a weak smile. It helps, knowing what he’s eating. His taste buds have been going crazy, ever since he lost his sight. He had no idea food could taste so different if you didn’t look at it.

“Anyway,” Hermione sighs. “The only references I found were Muggle legends. There’s this one thing about the Three Wise Monkeys.”

“What’s that?” Harry asks.

“Oh, you see, in 17th century Japan—”

“The short version, please?” Harry interrupts. He hears Hermione huff.

“It’s a maxim. ‘See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil’. There are different interpretations of it, though.”

“Why is it called the Wise Monkeys?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve seen some version of it somewhere. Basically, there are three monkeys. One is covering its eyes, one is covering its ears and one is covering its mouth.”

“Okay,” Harry says sceptically. “So… do you think there’s a connection?”

“To what happened to you? I’m not sure. But it’s the only thing I found that somewhat matches… this. I didn’t find anything about a curse that takes away three different senses from three individual people. But I think it must have been a combination of the Sectumsempra and the Evanesco. I tried looking that up as well, but there isn’t anything about the Sectumsempra-curse, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Harry echoes.

“But it does happen sometimes, different spells joining forces. It’s a very complicated process. The casters have to be in perfect unison. And their emotions—”

“Emotions?”

“Yes, of course, Harry. The magnitude of a spell is tied to your emotions.”

Harry inevitably thinks of Bellatrix and their fight in the Ministry. She had told him he has to mean it when he wants to use an Unforgivable Curse. It wouldn’t work otherwise.

“That’s why this is so hard to figure out,” Hermione continues. “I brought back more books from the library, but I’m making so little progress. I already told McGonagall what I found. I hope the teachers know more about this. ”

Harry nods, even though he feels hopeless, and lets his head fall back. It sounds like they’re going to be stuck in here for a very long time.

“Mr Malfoy, you have to eat something,” Madam Pomfrey says in a disapproving tone. “How are you expecting to get better if you refuse every meal?”

Harry frowns. Even before the… events in Myrtle’s bathroom, Malfoy had barely eaten anything. Harry had observed him at meal times in the Great Hall, after noticing how thin and sickly he had gotten. Harry wonders what he looks like now. Does he have dark circles under his eyes? Are his cheeks even more hollow?

_Great. Maybe he’ll starve himself to death._

The image of Malfoy’s slender fingers, clutching the sink in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, while tears streamed down his face, flashes into Harry’s mind, unbidden. He wishes he could obliviate himself. He wishes he never went into that bathroom in the first place.

 _“I can’t do it. It won’t work,”_ Malfoy had sobbed.

What won’t work? What had he been doing?

_“He says he’ll kill me.”_

Harry’s stomach spasms violently as he remembers those words. It really shouldn’t come as a surprise. Of course Voldemort is threatening to kill him. And, clearly, Malfoy had been scared out of his mind. He probably still is.

 _Well, it’s his own fault_ , a little voice in Harry’s head hisses. _He became a Death Eater._

He probably had been dying to join his father. With all those speeches over the years, about ‘filthy’ Mudbloods and how Pure-blood families are better than others, there really was no way around it, was there? With the way Malfoy had been raised, it was pretty much inevitable.

 _His father must be so proud of him_ , Harry thinks and wrinkles his nose in disgust.

But… what if…

Harry stops poking his plate. What would Lucius Malfoy have done if his son hadn’t wanted to become a Death Eater? Would he have given him a choice? Harry doubts it. And suddenly, there’s this slight possibility that Malfoy…

_What, is a victim? He’s not a victim!_

No. But maybe he’s not as evil as Harry had thought.

It makes him wonder… Would Ron have become a Death Eater if his parents weren’t as open-minded? What if they had followed all of those moronic Pure-blood values and traditions?

_Oh god! Would the Weasleys be friends with the Malfoys?_

His mind unhelpfully provides him with an image of Ron in Slytherin robes, a sneer on his face as he high-fives an equally sneering Malfoy. There are so many things wrong with that picture.

“Hewwy, wai aant yuu iitin?”

“Ron! Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Hermione chastises.

Harry almost shivers. He doesn’t want to think about the possibility of his best friend being one of Voldemort’s followers. And as much as he’d like to hold on to the belief that Malfoy is evil, he has to admit it might be more complicated than that. What does he even really know about Malfoy? He knows nothing about his home life and mostly takes wild guesses at what happens after he goes to the Slytherin common room.

Basically, he only knows what Malfoy lets him see. There could be so much more Harry has no clue about. And that’s not all. There are a few other things that keep bugging him. For example, why had Malfoy been talking to Myrtle of all people? Why not talk to one of his cronies, who are probably next in line to become Death Eaters?

_You mean all those devoted friends, who visit him every day?_

The next thought hits Harry like another slap in the face.

_Maybe he has nobody._

No, that can’t be it. He’s, like, the runner-up Heir of Slytherin. Everyone with a green tie probably falls at his feet when he enters the room. Harry remembers the way Pansy Parkinson stroked his hair on the train ride to Hogwarts, adoration written all over her face. The mere thought makes Harry shudder.

But, now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t seen Parkinson by Malfoy’s side for a while, nor Crabbe or Goyle. Malfoy usually takes a seat beside that Zabini guy in classes these days and doesn’t engage in any conversation at meal-time. Harry sensed something had been off, but this… this is a whole new revelation. Because… maybe that’s why he talked to Myrtle.

_Because he doesn’t have anybody else to talk to._

Harry knows what that’s like. He has Ron and Hermione, but there are certain things he doesn’t feel comfortable sharing with them. Like when he has nightmares about his parents dying, or how it feels when he has these glimpses into Voldemort’s mind or… what… what had happened at the Ministry last summer. It’s lonely, keeping these things inside. But Harry doesn’t feel like talking about it. He’d rather be lonely.

_What— What if it’s the same for Malfoy?_

Harry doesn’t want to believe that. He can’t believe that. Because if he does, that really would mean… he’s starting to feel sympathy for Malfoy. And he doesn’t deserve that. Right?

_You deserved that slap. Kind of. Maybe he deserves the benefit of the doubt._

“No,” Harry immediately grumbles. Not after everything the git has done to him.

“Did you say something, Harry?” Hermione asks.

Harry sighs. “Nevermind. I’m really not that hungry.”

He puts down the fork and lets his head fall onto the pillow. He ignores the lecture Madam Pomfrey gives him a few minutes later as she carries away his mostly untouched food.

Malfoy isn’t an innocent victim. Harry refuses to believe that. He _knows_ it’s not like that. But the greater the possibility of Malfoy being forced into becoming a Death Eater becomes in Harry’s head, the more disgusted he feels with himself. He never should have used that spell on Malfoy. No matter how he looks at it, it always comes down to this.

 

* * *

 

Harry turns in his bed, slowly coming to his senses. The silence in the hospital wing is only disrupted by Ron’s snoring. Harry is already so used to it, he has no trouble falling asleep to the sound of it. He wonders how Malfoy is dealing with it.

It must still be nighttime, or at least very early in the morning. And Harry has to go to the bathroom.

_Damn it!_

This hasn’t happened before, so he’s not sure what to do. There’s no way in hell he’s going to wake somebody to accompany him to the loo. It’s awful enough he has to rely on other people to help him with everyday stuff, but he won’t make it even more obvious how unskilled he is on his own. No, he can do this. He’ll show everyone that he’s perfectly capable.

He climbs out of bed, feeling grumpy and groggy. He hates having to get out of bed in the middle of the night. And now that he can’t see anything, it’s even worse. He grumbles under his breath, and keeps his fingers on his bed as he slowly starts to walk. He knows it’s simple. The bathroom is straight ahead. All he has to do is keep walking. But, Harry realises, it’s hard without having someone to guide him. He feels extremely stupid, with his hands outstretched in front of him, feeling the air, waiting for his hands to connect with the wall. Only, they don’t.

Harry bumps into something else and immediately tumbles. His hands try to grab something, anything, that will prevent him from falling. His brain needs a second to register that his hands have indeed succeeded and he isn’t lying on the floor. But he has no idea what his hands have grabbed. It feels… soft. It takes him another second to notice there are hands on him. He’s being held. One hand between his shoulder blades, the other on his hip. The hands are cold. Very cold. But the body he’s being pressed against is warm. Harry’s heart jumps at the unexpected and sudden realisation.

Intending to let his arm fall to his side and step away, he lets go of the soft fabric, but his fingers sweep over something that makes him frown. It’s not fabric, it’s skin. Someone’s chest. But it feels… strange. Unthinkingly, he lets his fingertips follow the bumps he feels. Long lines, raised and uneven. His frown deepens, and he quickly withdraws his hand. For a moment, he forgot he was touching an actual person. A person who is standing perfectly still, probably feeling extremely uncomfortable after being groped by Harry.

Judging from what his fingertips felt, the person seems to be male. Harry’s cheeks heat up at the thought that he could have accidentally molested a girl like this in the middle of the hospital wing.

_Well… is molesting a bloke in the middle of the hospital wing that much better?_

As if the person in front of him has read his thoughts, he moves. Just an inch. But it’s enough to make Harry aware he’s still standing in an awkward embrace with a stranger. He feels a warm puff of air on his face. If he hadn’t been so groggy, he probably would have made the connection sooner. There aren’t that many blokes in the hospital wing at the moment. And Ron is still snoring in his bed…

Realisation hits Harry, as if a bucket of iced water has just been dumped on him. This is Malfoy. This is Draco Malfoy, and what Harry just touched is the result of his own curse. The curse that nearly killed him.

_Merlin, how many scars are there? Is his whole body covered in them? What about his face?_

He imagines Malfoy looking into the mirror, and seeing the reminder of what Harry did to him. Every day. For the rest of his life.

_Oh god, it’s all my fault!_

It feels like everything inside him is turning into ice. He’s frozen, but he feels beads of sweat forming on his forehead. The cold hands are still steadying him, but now they’re also tentatively pressing into his skin, as if Malfoy is readying himself to shove Harry away at any second.

Everything is spinning. It’s an odd sensation. It’s completely dark, everything is black, so Harry can’t focus on anything to try and make the spinning stop. It feels so different without being able to see. He feels so… helpless. The cold hands squeeze his hip and Harry’s mind snaps into awareness again.

“Oh god,” he groans, and his voice doesn’t sound like his own at all. “What have I done? What have I done?”

He wants to back away, take a step back, but the cold hands keep him in place. He wants to struggle, and moves his hands to break away from Malfoy, only to feel the marred skin beneath his fingertips again. A weird stabbing pain shoots down his spine. He can’t bear it. It’s too much. Too much.

He pushes himself away from the other boy. He stumbles, falls, scrambles. He ignores the sudden pain in his left knee and crawls forward, hoping it’s the right way to the bathroom. He feels sick. He feels disgusted. How could he have done that? How could he have just shouted the spell without knowing what it did? And now Malfoy has all these scars. And he’s mute.

With his last energy, he hoists himself up and clutches, he hopes, the sink. His breathing is coming in painful pants now and before he can even begin to think straight, he’s heaving and suddenly tastes all the bitterness he has felt in the pit of his stomach for days.

 

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

 

It’s fascinating, really, how the Weasel won’t even shut up at night. He’s not only snoring, he’s also mumbling in his sleep. At one point, Draco is pretty sure he’s mumbling something about Granger. _Granger._ Draco doesn’t even want to imagine what Weasley is dreaming about. The thought alone is revolting enough.

Rolling his eyes when hears something else about Shepherd's Pie, Draco swings his legs over the edge of his bed and trudges into the bathroom. He splashes his face with cold water over and over again. It doesn’t feel refreshing. It’s almost painful.

On his way back to the bed, he stops when he hears something moving around the room. His eyes are still adjusting to the darkness when someone suddenly bumps into him. Instinctively, he reaches out and grabs the other person. Whoever it is is clutching his collar, inadvertently forcing Draco closer to him. It’s Potter. Draco wouldn’t even need to see his face to know it’s him. He can smell him.

His pulse quickens without his permission and all he can do is stare at that frown on Potter’s face. And then, he feels Potter’s fingers on him. On his chest. On the scars. His breath catches in his throat. Potter is touching his scars. It’s over in the blink of an eye, but they both just stand there, rooted to the spot, as if they’re both in shock.

Draco lets out a long breath he didn’t realise he had been holding. Potter shakes his head ever so slightly, and then, something strange happens. Draco tightens his grip on Potter when he feels a tremor go through his body.

“Oh god,” Potter groans. “What have I done? What have I done?” Upon hearing those words, Draco’s fingers dig even deeper into Potter’s skin. Is the prat actually feeling sorry now?

_How dare he!_

The wise thing to do would be to let go, and leave the Gryffindor to his fate. But, somehow, Draco finds himself clinging to the prat. He tries to restrain him as Potter squirms and pushes against Draco, before he finally breaks free and tumbles to the ground. Draco watches as he crawls into the bathroom, and then throws up violently in the sink.

_Ugh!_

Draco has only a second to decide if he’s feeling satisfaction or disgust over Potter being sick like that. Next thing he knows, Potter crashes onto the floor, his mouth hanging wide open.

_Merlin’s balls, what’s wrong with him now?_

Draco hesitates, taking in the sight of Potter, lying helplessly on the floor. He almost looks… dead.

_Is his chest still moving?_

A weird sensation, something almost resembling fear, washes over him and against his better judgement, Draco finds himself rushing forward and sinking down to his knees. He grabs Potter’s shoulders and starts shaking his limp body.

_You’re only unconscious, right? Right? Fuck you, you arsehole! Wake up! Wake up!_

Damn, what should he do? He looks around and sees several empty vials on the little shelf to his right. He takes them and smashes them one by one. He doesn’t have to wait long before he hears distant footsteps and Madam Pomfrey grumbling angrily.

Maybe he’ll regret this. Maybe he should have just let Potter lie there.

Draco isn’t one to be overly superstitious and he doesn’t believe in any of that karma nonsense. But… breaking Potter’s nose and leaving him on the Hogwarts Express at the beginning of term hadn’t exactly brought him good luck, now had it? It hadn’t even felt as good as Draco had hoped. Leaving Potter here, probably injured, for a second time… Draco can’t help but think he’d pay the price for that later.

Oh, but people will think he’s somehow responsible for the precious Chosen One lying knocked out on the floor, won’t they? Merlin, how will he explain to Madam Pomfrey that this wasn’t his fault? This looks really bad. Nobody will believe Draco is innocent. Why should they?

_Even while you’re unconscious, you’re making my life a living hell! You insufferable prick!_

He takes a deep breath.

_Damn you, Potter! I hope you die!_


	5. Chapter 5

_“I can’t do it. … It won’t work. … I can’t— He says he’ll kill me.”_

“Harry?”

_“He says he’ll kill me.”_

“He’s been out of it for over a day. Do you really think he’s going to be okay?”

_“He says he’ll kill me.”_

“He keeps whimpering. I think he’s in pain.”

“Yes, Miss Granger. I’m doing my best.”

“He’s shivering, I—”

“Miss Granger, I know you’re worried about your friend and while I’m sure he appreciates your concern, it is my job to take care of him. So will you please let me do my job?”

Silence. Something’s cold. Fingers, pressing against his forehead.

“He needs to wake up, so I can give him these potions. Miss Granger, I think you should go back to your dorm and rest. No, Miss Granger, there’s nothing you can do at the moment. Come back tomorrow after classes.”

A hand on his cheek. Footsteps. The door. Silence.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Mr Potter, running a high fever like that.”

Something is placed on his forehead. It’s cool. It feels good.

“If you don’t wake up on your own in the morning, believe me, I’ll make sure those potions find their way into your system one way or another.”

Footsteps again. More silence. His head hurts. Everything hurts. The silence is too loud.

_“He says he’ll kill me.”_

_No, don’t kill him._

He tries to move. He can’t.

Tears, falling into a sink. Blood, dripping from a mouth. Grey eyes, staring at him before they fall closed.

_I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

 

* * *

 

There’s something cold again. On his forehead. It’s dripping. His hair is getting wet. He stirs and the cold thing slips down to his shoulder. Someone takes it. Before it’s placed on his forehead again, he feels light fingers ghosting over his scar; a thumb, tracing the shape of his eyebrow.

“M—Madam—” He coughs. His throat feels as dry as sandpaper. “Madam Pomfrey, could you—” He coughs again. “Water?”

Madam Pomfrey doesn’t answer, but a few moments later she takes his wrist and guides his hand to something cool. A glass, Harry realises, as his fingers curl around it.

“Thank you,” he croaks. Madam Pomfrey helps him sit up and holds on to his wrist as he drinks, while her other hand is on Harry’s back, steadying him. Water has never tasted so good and so disgusting at the same time. Swallowing feels wrong, the muscles in his throat contract weirdly. But it helps with the awful dryness in his mouth and the dizziness.

As he empties the glass, he notices something about Madam Pomfrey’s palm. It’s a little rougher than he expected. It almost feels like his own, marred by years of holding on tight to a broom. In fact, all the Quidditch players he knows have these kinds of calluses on their hands. Huh. Weird. He never knew Madam Pomfrey used to play Quidditch. Or maybe she still does?

She takes the glass from him wordlessly when he’s finished and Harry lets himself fall back down. Madam Pomfrey puts the wet cloth on his forehead again, her hand accidentally brushing through his hair.

“Thank you,” Harry murmurs, suddenly feeling extremely tired again. The fingers, softly tangling in his hair, feel soothing, and Harry lets out a little sigh. Without thinking, he reaches up, clasps Madam Pomfrey’s hand and brings it down to his chest. The hand is cold. And Harry feels so warm. Too warm.

 _This feels nice_ , he thinks dazedly, before he drifts off to sleep again.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Harry notices when he wakes up, is that his head is throbbing. He makes a face as he tries to stretch his neck. He feels so gross. His pyjamas, the pillow and the blanket are all drenched in sweat. He probably needs a shower. And some new sheets.

When he tries to move his hands, in order to sit up, he notices that his right hand is holding something. Another hand. When had that happened? And who is this? He racks his brain and slowly remembers some bits and pieces from the night before. He blushes at the realisation that he made Madam Pomfrey stay the night at his bed.

_Oh Merlin!_

So much for showing everybody he’s capable on his own.

“Mr Malfoy?” Madam Pomfrey suddenly exclaims.

_Ugh, what has Malfoy done now?_

“What are you doing on the floor?”

Harry frowns. What _is_ he doing on the floor? And wait, why is Madam Pomfrey’s voice coming from way over there when she’s right next to Harry?

The hand, which Harry is still holding, quickly slips away.

“And what are you doing with that cloth?”

_What?_

If only Harry could see what’s going on. Malfoy probably had been trying to… um… smother him with a cloth? Yeah, okay, that doesn’t seem very likely. Or threatening.

“Mr Malfoy, have you— Oh.” Madam Pomfrey pauses. “Well, I’m sure you’re feeling guilty about whatever you did to Mr Potter, but I’m already taking care of him. I’ll have another talk with the Headmaster about this. You’re lucky I was able to heal the wound on his head completely,” she sniffs. “I don’t know why you two were fighting again, but honestly, attacking a blind student in the middle of the night. Here, in _my_ infirmary,” she adds under her breath.

“I’m not blind,” Harry protests. “And what do you mean, fighting?”

Madam Pomfrey ignores him.

“You should get back to your own bed now, Mr Malfoy.”

Harry doesn’t jump this time when he hears something clashing on the floor. He doesn’t register anything as his mind kicks into overdrive.

_Malfoy._

Fuck, it was Malfoy? He had been holding Draco sodding Malfoy’s hand? The whole night?

His breathing quickens as he’s starting to remember more details from the night before. It’s blurry and he can’t be sure what was only a dream and what’s reality, but… he remembers thinking that Madam Pomfrey playing Quidditch is a little odd.

_Merlin’s pants!_

Harry’s hand suddenly feels uncomfortable and hot, as if a thousand needles are pricking into it. But… what was it that Madam Pomfrey said?

_‘Whatever you did to Mr Potter’._

What had Malfoy done? Instinctively, Harry’s hands fly to his chest and start sweeping over his body. Huh. Everything is still there. As well as that bloody dizziness. And he can’t decide if he’s freezing or too hot.

 _He was touching my scar,_ Harry suddenly remembers. _And stroking my hair. I didn’t dream that, right? That really happened. Right?_

Harry doesn’t know what to think anymore. He has no idea what’s real or not. He can’t even begin to question Malfoy’s motives behind this. Why would he do that? What’s he planning? And why in Godric’s name would he let Harry hold his hand?

“How are you feeling, Mr Potter?”

Harry opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“You must still feel groggy. I’m sure you had… a rough night.” Her tone is something between disapproving and sympathetic. “Here, I have a few potions for you.”

“What are the potions for?” Harry asks warily.

“For your fever,” Madam Pomfrey says crossly. Harry doesn’t know why she seems so cross. It’s not his fault he’s running a fever.

He inhales sharply as more memories attack him. Being sick in the bathroom and right before that, touching—

_Fuck!_

He was touching Malfoy’s scars. Harry’s stomach rumbles and he feels like he’s going to throw up again. Does Madam Pomfrey think it’s Malfoy’s fault Harry got sick?

 _Well, technically_ —

No, Harry chastises himself. This, for once, isn’t Malfoy’s fault. Well, maybe just a little.

“Come on, you must be hungry,” Madam Pomfrey says. “Here’s some porridge. You shouldn’t take these potions on an empty stomach."

“Ugh, I don’t want to eat anything,” Harry croaks.

“Mr Potter,” Madam Pomfrey says sternly.

Harry sighs. “Alright, alright.” It takes him almost half an hour to empty the bowl placed in front of him. Afterwards, Madam Pomfrey hands him three different vials. They all taste appalling.

“Well, what did you expect? Butterscotch?” she sniffs as Harry makes a face. “Now, you’ll feel very tired again soon. Sleep it off, dear. When you wake up again, the fever should be gone.”

Harry nods as he hears her walk away. He’s already getting drowsy and slowly sinks down on his pillow again, all thoughts of Malfoy and his confusing, irritating, calloused, but still kind of soft hand, almost forgotten. Almost.

 

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

 

Draco doubts he’ll ever be able to sleep again, at least while he’s here in the hospital wing with ‘Snory Gryffindor’ and ‘Whiny Gryffindor’. All his attempts to tune out the noises fail.

“No, don’t kill him,” Potter whimpers.

_Salazar! Even in his sleep he’s saving people. Give me a break!_

Still, Draco cringes a little when Potter whimpers again. It sounds like he’s having a nightmare. Draco has some experience in that particular field. He wonders if Potter ever dreams of the Dark Lord as well. Is he dreaming of him right now? Even if he is, it can’t be as bad as Draco’s dreams. Not after what he saw the Dark Lord do to all those people. Wizards and Muggles alike. He tortured a witch because she hadn’t wanted to pledge her eternal allegiance to him by killing her father, a Muggle.

Sometimes, Draco can still hear her screams at night. He had wanted to look away, but found himself unable to, as the green light flashed through the room and the witch had gone limp, her eyes torn open, the look of terror engraved on her face and forever seared into Draco’s memory. Her father had been next. Voldemort had yelled with derisive laughter that had the same effect on Draco as if ten Dementors had just wafted into the parlour. His parlour.

When Draco thinks of home now, all he can see are corpses and Death Eaters.

 _Fellow Death Eaters_ , he reminds himself, grimly. _You’re one of them now._

He mustn’t let himself be crippled by his fear. His mother’s life is one the line; the Dark Lord made that very clear when he had told Draco what he wanted him to do, and had then tortured his mother with the Cruciatus Curse until she had crumpled to the floor, just to show Draco the potential consequences, should he fail. His mother was unconscious for days. While he sat by her bed, it had become clear to him that, with his father in Azkaban, he’s the only one who can protect her. He didn’t dare to leave her side after that. What a fun summer it had been.

She assured him she would be alright when it was time to go back to Hogwarts. Still, Draco had been reluctant to leave her behind, knowing that her attempts to reassure him were just empty words. Just as empty, probably, as his boasting had been on the train, in front of the other Slytherins, about serving the Dark Lord. He couldn’t let them know how terrified he’d been. It would have made him look like a coward. And Draco isn’t a coward.

He had panicked, however, when he realised Potter heard every word he said. That nosy prat. Draco had been very vague on purpose, but still, it was more than he had wanted Potter to know. Breaking his nose had been a snap decision, though, driven by the visceral anger that always seizes him whenever he lays eyes on the tosser.

Speaking of…

Internally grumbling, Draco turns around and takes a peek at Potter. The cloth Madam Pomfrey had placed on his forehead hours ago has fallen onto the mattress. Draco tries to ignore the Gryffindor’s irregular breathing, as well as his intermittent moans. So what if the prat is in pain? It’s not Draco’s problem. And it most certainly isn’t his fault.

Admittedly, for a second it seemed as though touching Draco’s scars had triggered Potter’s… misconduct. Honestly, disgorging like that while company was still present… The nerve of it. But, of course, Potter, boorish Gryffindor that he is, didn't care about refined manners. He couldn’t even be sick in silence.

Draco mentally slaps himself as he gets up, grabs the damned cloth, and soaks it in some fresh water. He can’t believe he’s doing this.

 _You’re only doing this so the bloody fever will go down, and Potter will finally shut up_ , he reasons with himself. Not all that convinced, he sighs and trudges back to the Gryffindor’s bed. This is such a Muggle thing to do. Surely, there must be a spell to rid oneself of a simple fever?

_And while we’re at it, we could get rid of that stupid, stupid scar!_

Draco only realises he’s touching said stupid, stupid scar _— What the fuck am I doing? —_ when Potter utters another moan. Mentally cursing, he places the cloth on the Gryffindor’s head. Potter stirs in his sleep and the cloth slides down to his shoulder.

_You prat! You did that on purpose, didn’t you?_

“M—Madam—”

Draco startles. Potter is awake after all.

“Madam Pomfrey, could you—”

Oh? Potter thinks he’s Madam Pomfrey?

_Really, Potter?_

“Water?” he rasps between coughs.

 _I’m not your bloody house-elf, you wanker_ , Draco thinks, but stomps to the bathroom and back nonetheless. He steadies Potter, as the git gulps down the water, and tries not to overthink the sudden buzzing in his ears and the tingle on his palm, which is pressed against Potter’s back.

“Thank you,” the prat croaks afterwards, flopping down on his pillow. Draco rolls his eyes. He puts the cold cloth back on Potter’s forehead, covering up the bloody lightning scar. He made sure not to touch it this time, but his hand seems to have other plans anyway. Without his permission, his fingers dip into the sea of black curls that always seems to be mocking him, even from afar. Getting the opportunity to tame it, just for a moment, is too tempting to pass up. Besides, Potter thinks he’s Madam Pomfrey. He’s clearly delusional.

 _And blind_ , Draco reminds himself, further relaxing at the thought. Relishing the surprising softness of Potter’s hair, Draco decides to indulge himself for just another moment.

Being locked up in the infirmary has been such an inconvenience so far. Aside from the horror of being in the tightest of spaces with two Gryffindors, Draco can’t make any progress, neither on the Vanishing Cabinet nor… the other assignment. This, brushing his fingers through Potter’s thick black curls, has been the first enjoyable thing so far.

Draco’s hand stops as the word ‘enjoyable’ echoes in his mind. Enjoyable? He’s not enjoying this. No, definitely not. Granted, he had been weirdly fixated on Potter’s hair for a while and he had often wondered what it would be like to touch it, but only because it’s so irritating and ghastly and—

His entire body goes rigid when Potter suddenly grabs his hand.

_Fuck!_

Now what? Potter has caught him doing… what _had_ he been doing exactly?

Draco doesn’t move as the Gryffindor closes his fingers around Draco’s hand and pulls it closer; so close that it’s now trapped between Potter’s palm and his chest.

_Fucking— Ugh!_

Draco debates snatching his hand away, but what if the prat starts whimpering again? There’s no way he can ignore that. He’ll lie awake, tempted to strangle him. To make matters worse, the tosser seems to be more relaxed now, his breathing slow and even. Draco isn’t keen on disrupting that, suspecting he won’t get a wink of sleep if he does. It’s got nothing to do with the fact that Potter’s heartbeat is now drumming against the back of his hand and Draco’s face is feeling strangely warm.

Mentally cursing Potter, he slowly crouches down, until he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor.

_Now what? Am I supposed to spend the night like this? On the cold stone floor? Damn it, I didn’t think this through!_

He huffs and glares at the Gryffindor, who seems to be sound asleep again.

_Fuck you, Potter! I hope you— you—_

The words he thought the night before, when Potter collapsed in front of him, inadvertently enter his mind.

_I hope you die!_

He hadn’t meant that. Not like that. Leave it to Potter to take it so seriously.

Draco mentally scoffs. Of course he’s not going to die. Wizards don’t die from a fever. Still, seeing Potter like this is a bit… disconcerting. He sighs. This is ridiculous. He shouldn’t be doing this. He has other things to worry about. And yet, he can’t bring himself to pull away and go to his own bed. Instead, he lowers his head to the mattress and blinks in the darkness.

_I must be going mental._


	6. Chapter 6

“I’m so glad you’re feeling better, Harry!”

“Yeah. These potions really are something else.”

“Yeah, but they taste awful, don’t they? Mum always had to force them down my throat.” Ginny laughs and Harry can’t help laughing with her. It’s nice to have an actual conversation.

“So, how’s Quidditch practice going?” he asks.

Ginny lets out a sigh. “It’s going fine, I guess. McLaggen is being difficult.”

“No surprises there,” Harry mutters.

“Yeah.” She pauses. “I really wish you could play with us. We miss you.”

Harry smiles awkwardly and clears his throat. He really misses playing Quidditch. But these last few days, he hardly ever thought about it; his mind has been preoccupied stressing over Malfoy.

“Anyway, there have been a few quarrels, but nothing too serious,” Ginny continues.

“How, um— How are you and Dean getting along?”

He hears Ginny shift in her seat. “Oh. Let’s not talk about that.”

“That great, huh?”

Ginny brushes it off with a laugh and pats his hand. “Don’t worry about it, Harry. It will be fine. We’ll still be able to win the match.”

Harry nods and notices the way Ginny’s hand feels on his. She has that same calluses he noticed on Malfoy’s hand. He mentally shakes his head at himself.

_How could you have thought it was Madam Pomfrey?_

“Do you know if there’s any news on the curse?” he asks, rubbing at his eyes. “The teachers haven’t been up here and Hermione says she’s still at a dead end.”

“No, I haven’t heard anything,” Ginny murmurs. “I tried to help Hermione, but I got the impression she works better on her own.”

Harry sniggers.

“Oh, I have to get back to classes,” Ginny exclaims and Harry hears her get up. “Hey, how about I ask Madam Pomfrey if I can take you outside before dinner? You know, maybe a walk around the lake or something. You’ve been here for over a week and haven’t moved around at all. Your muscles will fade.”

“Oh Merlin, yes please,” Harry bursts out enthusiastically. “That would be great! Ron should come, too! And Hermione and—” Harry stops dead.

“What is it, Harry?” Ginny asks.

He isn’t sure what to say. He feels ecstatic about the idea of finally getting some fresh air. Ron will probably feel the same. They’ll be able to go outside and enjoy themselves. But what about… Malfoy? Harry can’t believe he’s even thinking this, but, inexplicably, he feels almost bad at the thought of Malfoy, either staying inside or being outside all by himself.

 _Come on, don’t be stupid_ , he berates himself. _What’s wrong with you? Since when do you care if Malfoy feels lonely?_

“Harry?” Ginny asks again.

“Oh. Nothing,” he replies, forcing his lips into a smile. “That sounds great, Ginny. It will be fun.”

“Good. I’ll talk to Madam Pomfrey on my way out. See you later then. Well, _I’ll_ be seeing you.”

Harry snorts.

“Bye, Ron.”

“ARE YOU LEAVING?”

“YES, RON, I’M LEAVING!”

“You do know you don’t have to shout back at him, right?” Harry laughs.

“I know,” Ginny sniggers. Harry shakes his head with a grin on his face. The prospect of leaving this dreadful room has him in such a good mood, he almost starts to hum.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the day passes even slower than usual, making Harry more and more agitated. When Ginny finally returns, with Hermione in tow, he practically jumps out of bed.

“So, Madam Pomfrey was very adamant,” Ginny begins and Harry stops in his tracks.

“She didn’t say no, did she?”

“She did at first,” Ginny confirms. “But when she realised I wouldn’t go until she agreed, she said yes. Very grudgingly so, but still.”

“Alright, let’s go,” Harry says, unable to retain his excitement.

“Wait, you need your robes first,” Ginny sniggers. Harry hears her laugh heartily as Ron shouts at Hermione, matching Harry’s excitement. While Ginny helps him get down the stairs, he tries very hard not to feel guilty about leaving Malfoy behind.

_Come on, he’s probably glad to be catching a break from you and Ron. He wouldn’t have come, even if you would have asked him. Boy, what an awkward conversation that would have been!_

Harry smiles when he feels the warmth of the sun on his face. Oh, how much he has missed the sun.

“Oh my,” Ginny chuckles. “You’d think Ron has a sunburn already.”

“What?” Harry turns his head this way and that, as if that will prompt his eyes to suddenly open again.

“Oh, sorry.” Ginny leans in. “Ron and Hermione are holding hands, and I think Ron is about to implode,” she whispers. Harry laughs and immediately wonders if Ginny will take his hand as well. She does. Curiously enough, he finds that holding hands with her isn’t as thrilling as he had assumed. It’s almost like… holding Hermione’s hand.

They walk in silence for a while and Harry tries to savour every little detail. Birds chirping, the soft breeze caressing his face, the laughter from other students somewhere far off.

“You know,” Ginny says as she guides Harry a little more to the left, “there’s been some talk amongst the team.”

“What kind of talk?” Harry asks, bracing himself for another ‘foolproof strategy’ by McLaggen.

“Well…” She hesitates. “Some members of the team have been saying you only made me Captain, because… because you like me.”

Harry arches an eyebrow. “Of course I like you, but what does that have to do with making you Captain? Because you’re my friend?”

“No, Harry,” Ginny says softly, putting a hand on his upper arm. “They think you like me a little more than that.”

Harry cocks his head to the side. “Seriously? They don’t think I made you Captain because you’re one hell of a player? Because you’re an amazing Chaser, but also a bloody good Seeker? They didn’t stop to think that my decision is based on talent, rather than favouring a friend? Is this coming from Dean?”

He hears Ginny exhale loudly. “It doesn’t matter,” she mutters.

“It does matter! They’re clearly underestimating you! Even though they’ve all seen you play! Are they blind?”

He feels Ginny shaking beside him, and, at first, he thinks she’s getting angry. When he hears her booming laughter, he frowns in confusion.

“Maybe,” she chuckles. “But not as blind as you.”

“Hey, I’m not blind,” Harry retorts. “I just… can’t open my eyes.”

He hears Ginny giggle and they resume walking as she tells him about her classes. Harry has almost forgotten she’s about to take her O.W.L.s.

“I started studying with Luna. She’s a pretty good study partner. But, Merlin, the other night, we were in the library and she actually—”

“What? What did she do?” Harry asks when Ginny suddenly stops talking.

“Um.”

“What is it?”

He feels Ginny leaning closer to him.

“It’s Malfoy. He’s… he’s watching us.”

Harry stiffens. “He’s here? Outside?” His stomach rumbles uncomfortably, which he tries to ignore. “Is anyone with him?”

“No,” she whispers. “He’s sitting under a tree, by himself. And from the looks of it, he’s trying to kill us with his glare.”

Harry bites his lip. He’s stunned by the unexpected queasiness washing over him. He can’t explain it. He can’t understand it. But he can’t help it. He just can’t help feeling sympathy for Malfoy. He must be so lonely.

 _So? That’s not your problem! As if he wants_ your _company anyway._

That is probably very true, but Harry’s obsession with him — Hermione’s words, not his — has only increased after last night. What had that been about? What is he playing at? Harry just can’t think of a plausible reason why Malfoy would spend the night at his bedside, holding his hand. He makes a face and suppresses a shudder at the embarrassing memory. It’s what friends do, parents, family, not insufferable gits who hate his guts. And he can’t be _that_ desperate for human contact. Besides, Harry has a feeling he’s isolating himself, rather than being avoided. But Harry will have none of that. Malfoy can’t fuck with him like that. He’ll get to the bottom of this. He’ll go insane if he doesn’t. It might be part of Malfoy’s devious plan to— Whatever it is.

_Right. So you catching a fever was part of his plan as well?_

_Oh, shut up,_ Harry mentally snaps at himself. Deep down, he knows he’s being irrational, but that seems to be a common theme whenever it comes to Malfoy. Not wanting to ponder on this anymore and burning for answers, he makes a snap decision.

“Ginny,” he whispers, “can you take me over there?”

“What?”

“Can you take me to him?”

“Why?” She sounds sceptical.

“I want to talk to him.”

“But… he can’t talk.”

Harry smiles awkwardly. “I know.”

After a moment of hesitation, Ginny starts moving. They walk for quite a bit until she comes to a halt, obviously unsure of what to do next.

“Thanks,” Harry murmurs. “Err, I’m sorry if this is rude, but could you maybe leave us alone?”

“What?” Ginny hisses. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“What if he attacks you?”

“Then I’ll try to defend myself,” he answers with a shrug. “I’ll probably grope him somewhere inappropriate, though. You know, given the circumstances.” He gestures to his eyes. “He’ll be so shocked, he’ll forget all about attacking me.”

“You’re not taking this very seriously.” Ginny is probably scowling at him.

He sighs. “I’m sorry, Ginny. I know you don’t understand. I don’t even understand it. But it will be okay. Trust me, alright?”

“I’m not sure if I do on this one, but I guess you can’t be stopped, so…” She squeezes his hand, before she lets go of him. “Be safe,” she hisses in his ear.

Harry waits a few seconds, until he can’t hear her footsteps anymore. He feels very awkward as he stretches out his hands and fumbles around, until his fingers finally find the trunk of the tree. Keeping one hand on the trunk, he slowly sits down, feeling around the grass with his other hand. He jumps when he touches something and realises it’s Malfoy’s leg.

“Sorry,” he mumbles and quickly withdraws his hand. The longer the silence stretches between them, the stupider Harry feels. What exactly is the point of this? What did he intend to do? Apologise to Malfoy for what happened in Myrtle’s bathroom? Tell him how sorry he feels for him?

_Because that will be very well received for sure!_

Yeah. Maybe trying to be civil with Malfoy wasn't the best idea after all. Maybe he should have just gone back to the castle with Ginny. That definitely would have been the smarter decision. Not to mention that Ginny will probably hound him later to explain what that had been about. That’s not a conversation he’s looking forward to. He’d rather listen to more stories about how his mates think he’s a lovesick fool, who makes the girl he fancies Captain of their team.

Oh. With a sudden jolt, Harry realises he didn’t tell Ginny he _does_ fancy her. He didn’t even think about it. That would have been his chance. Although… he wouldn’t have had a clue how to even begin such an awkward conversation. He can’t just… tell her. Just like he can’t just turn around and blurt out to Malfoy he wants an explanation for his curious behaviour. Not that Malfoy would really tell him. Even if he were able to talk, he’d probably rather bite his tongue off.

Harry lets his head fall back against the tree trunk. It feels like the sun is almost gone. It’s much colder than when they first went outside. He takes a deep breath, taking in all the smells around him; the grass, the fresh spring air… it feels soothing. Almost. His body is still a little tense, very aware of the fact that Malfoy is right beside him.

_You’re just going to sit here and say nothing?_

Ugh. But what should he say?

_You could start with saying sorry._

Right. And there’s a 30 percent chance he won’t make an awful ass of himself. What is he even supposed to say?

‘Sorry I almost killed you. But in my defense, you’re an arse and you wanted to torture me.’

Yeah. Perfect.

The thing is, apologising to Malfoy feels so wrong. He _is_ an arse after all. But on the other hand, Harry can’t just say nothing. He does feel sorry and Malfoy needs to know that. Harry doesn’t want him to think he’s a cruel monster. But he wonders how Malfoy would react. Would he be smug? Angry? Indifferent? Harry doesn’t like any of these possibilities. Would he even get to apologise, without Malfoy punching him halfway through?

_You could… err… You could compliment him first._

Compliment him? On what? His awful personality? His gruesome slurs, his pointy face, his stony glares? Ugh. Well, if Harry had to pick one thing, it would probably be—

“I think you hair looks nicer, since you stopped slicking it back.”

He freezes.

_Really, Harry? REALLY?_

For a moment, there’s this tiny flicker of hope in him, that he hasn’t actually said that out loud. Why, _why_ for Merlin’s fucking sake, does his mouth always decide to take the helm at the worst time possible?

Harry waits, stock-still, for Malfoy to say something. Why isn’t he— Oh. Right. Ugh, if only Harry could see his face right now. Is he even still here? Harry slowly moves his hand. There’s only grass and… oh, there’s something. It feels like… like… another hand.

_Fuck! Good one, you idiot!_

“Sorry,” he mumbles hastily and quickly pulls away. Getting frustrated with himself, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his robes and decides to keep them there for the rest of his life. He tries to act as normal as possible, while his insides feel like they’re on fire. When Malfoy gets his voice back, Harry is never going to hear the end of this. _If_ he gets his voice back. Maybe he won’t. That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. But that would mean Harry won’t be able to open his eyes either, so… Ugh. He should have just stayed inside today.

He forces himself to relax. There’s nothing he can do about it now. Besides, what does he care what Malfoy thinks? Except… he does. He can’t help it. They’ve been at each other’s throats for six years now and, somehow, in a very twisted way, it’s become such a habit, Harry finds himself waiting for the Slytherin’s taunts. He should enjoy the silence and not having to look at Malfoy’s scowl, but instead, Harry shifts from side to side, feeling uneasy. It’s ridiculous. He doesn’t miss being teased by the git. He could very well live without it. And yet… this just doesn’t feel right. He would never admit it out loud, but he desperately wants to know what the Slytherin is thinking right now. Maybe he could… try and find out? Snape has only taught him Occlumency, but maybe if he just concentrated on Malfoy hard enough…

He balls his hands into fists and tries to clear his mind from any other thoughts.

_Malfoy. Malfoy. What is he thinking?_

He inhales sharply as his scar suddenly starts to burn and strange images attack his mind. He hears furious screaming. He knows that voice, but it’s not Malfoy’s…

He sees red eyes, gleaming.

“What have you done, you fool?”

“Master, I—”

“Is this how you show your loyalty to Lord Voldemort?”

“Master—”

“SILENCE! Your mistake might be even graver than you realise.”

Whimpering. Sobbing.

“I should have known something like this might happen. Well, let me show you what happens to people who disobey me.”

“No! Please, Master!”

“Crucio!”

Screaming. Cruel laughter.

Harry doesn’t realise he’s screaming as well. He doesn’t realise there are tears streaming down his face. It has been months since he’s had a glimpse into Voldemort’s mind. Dumbledore said Voldemort is most likely using Occlumency, to shield his mind against Harry and that has seemed to work. So why is Harry seeing this now? Why is he seeing Voldemort torturing one of his Death Eaters? And why is it so different from the other times? It hurts. It physically hurts to watch. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t been able to see anything for so long.

Harry finally notices he’s being restrained; he wasn’t aware he had been thrashing around. He struggles against the hands, digging into his arms. Someone is shaking him. He tries to remember where he is. He feels completely disoriented. His eyes still hurt. The shaking intensifies. This is not helping.

“Please stop,” he whimpers. It does stop, but the hands are still firmly holding him in place. That’s actually a good thing, Harry realises, as his body slowly sags. He can almost hear the wheels in his mind turning as understanding hits him. He can’t bring himself to say anything. Embarrassment washes over him and he wishes he could be anywhere else right now.

Malfoy probably doesn’t know what happened just now. Or maybe he does. There have been enough articles in the Daily Prophet, questioning Harry’s sanity. Articles based on rumours, Harry reminds himself, Malfoy has helped spread. Given their current circumstances, that does feel like child’s play now. Still, it makes Harry tense up. But Malfoy keeps doing this, acting like he’s worried about Harry’s well-being. Maybe it is just that, an act.

He tenses up even more while the inner battle with his conscience continues. Malfoy seems to take this as his cue to finally let go of him. He moves away from him and Harry suddenly worries he might leave. Despite his embarrassment, he really doesn’t want to be alone right now.

“Wait,” he murmurs, in spite of himself. He hesitates, feeling stupid. He knows what he’s about to ask is foolish and dumb. But everything is so confusing right now. He feels so vulnerable, which makes this all the more scary.

Usually, he can deal with these kind of things on his own, but he’s tired of it. He’s so sick of being regarded as the Chosen One, a hero, when, in reality, he can barely hold it together. He doesn’t want his friends to see this side of him. They’ll start to worry, make a big thing out of it. They’ll try to help him, probably give him lots of unsolicited advice, whereas Malfoy might just laugh in his face. But, Harry thinks, that’s probably unlikely, given how scared he seemed when he talked to Myrtle about Voldemort.

So, somehow, the thought that Malfoy might understand, implants itself in Harry’s brain and pushes him to try and see the bigger picture. In a way, Voldemort is both their enemy. Malfoy might be a Death Eater, but Harry’s doubts about his loyalty to Voldemort keep growing the longer he thinks about it. But… still, as long as Malfoy keeps working for him, he poses a threat, no matter his motivation.

Harry’s only consolation for the moment is that, whatever Malfoy is up to, it doesn’t seem to involve hurting Harry. Not directly at least. But letting Malfoy see this vulnerable side of him might expose Harry. It might play right into Malfoy’s cards. But, Harry reckons, if he wanted to harm him, he would have done it already. He has had enough opportunities.

_Besides, he has just seen the worst of it._

Harry hastily wipes his face with his sleeve. He’s still not sure what the hell he’s doing. But before he can stop himself, he hears himself whisper, “Could you… could you stay here for another minute?”

Harry strains his ears for any sign of movement, unconsciously holding his breath. It was a stupid thing to ask. Of course Malfoy doesn’t want to stay and console him. Why would he? He—

Harry freezes. There have only been a few times in his life when he was so shocked, his mind went completely blank. When Dudley pushed him down the stairs ‘by accident’ when they were five, when Hagrid told him he’s a wizard, and when Hermione slapped Malfoy across the face three years ago. None of those occurrences prepared him for this, however. He’s utterly speechless and flabbergasted when he feels a slightly cold hand briefly brushing his. It couldn’t have been by accident, because Harry can feel the hand still hovering inches over his. He tries to stay completely still, but fails. His entire body seems to be jumping in the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat, causing their hands to touch again. He lets out an involuntary gasp. He senses Malfoy’s hesitation, before he slowly turns over Harry’s hand. The Slytherin gingerly lets his fingers glide over Harry’s palm. His touch is feather-light and for a moment, Harry wonders if he’s just imagining it. But when long fingers curl around his, there’s no denying that this is very real.

Harry is suddenly very concerned about his palm getting sweaty. He can feel his heartbeat in it and wonders if Malfoy can, too. Just when Harry thought this day couldn’t get more embarrassing.

But Draco Malfoy is holding his hand. Again. What the fuck is this? What the fuck is he doing?

The only time Harry has pictured himself and Malfoy holding hands, it had been in a death grip, both trying to wrestle the other to the floor to get the upper hand. Of course, Harry would win and he’d have Malfoy pinned under him, and—

 _Oh god, wait, no, stop,_ Harry implores his mind as the scene suddenly turns into something very awkward. That is _not_ what he had in mind. It doesn’t matter anyway. The way Malfoy is holding his hand right now is nothing like that. It feels… almost tender and reassuring.

_Merlin, that’s even worse!_

Harry still has no idea what possessed Malfoy to do this. Is he trying to lull Harry into a false sense of security? Because that’s definitely not going to happen. But… it does feel comforting. It’s actually better than being bombarded with a thousand questions about what he just saw and what it means. Huh. Malfoy won’t do any of those things, Harry realises. He won’t ask questions, he won’t be able to say something nasty…

This is probably a really bad idea, but, apparently, holding hands with the person who irritates you most, makes you do stupid things.

“I just saw Voldemort,” Harry murmurs quietly. He feels Malfoy’s hand twitch in his. “He was torturing someone.”

He knows he should probably stop talking. But, again, something in Harry seems to be convinced that Malfoy understands. Maybe even more than Ron and Hermione.

“This isn’t the first time it happened. I’ve been having dreams and these weird glimpses into Voldemort’s mind. Last year…” He takes a deep breath. “Last year he tricked me into going to the Ministry. Your father was there.” Harry swallows around the lump in his throat.

_And now he’s in Azkaban._

“You probably knew that already.”

Malfoy doesn’t move a muscle and Harry wonders once more what he’s thinking. It’s unnerving, talking to someone without seeing their reaction. He doesn’t know if Malfoy is stunned, afraid, or if he’s going to strangle Harry.

 _He’d need both hands for that_ , his mind supplies dryly. Right. One of his hands is still wrapped securely around Harry’s. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” he continues after a moment. “Seeing him, I mean. It’s so strange. It’s like, when he’s angry, I get angry. And when he tortures or kills someone…” Harry’s voice breaks, but he pushes himself to keep going. “I can feel what he feels. And in these moments, he feels… gleeful.” A shiver runs down Harry’s spine and from the way Malfoy is squeezing his hand, it didn’t go unnoticed. “I just can’t imagine how someone can feel like that while they’re— It makes me sick.”

Malfoy, of course, doesn’t say anything to that and Harry wonders if he would, even if he were able to speak.

“Did you see him? Over the summer?”

_Merlin, what are you doing? Is this your subtle way of asking if Voldemort threw him a party after he became a Death Eater?_

Harry feels him shift. He keeps tapping his index finger against Harry’s hand. As if he’s nervous.

_Maybe he does want to say something._

Harry groans inwardly. He can’t believe he actually wants to hear what Malfoy has to say. This is so ridiculous. Even when they’re being completely civil with each other, they can’t have a normal conversation. But as the tapping on his hand continues, an idea takes form in his head.

“Maybe…” He bites his lip. “Maybe we could come up with a signal. You know, for when you want to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. It would make this… almost a conversation.” Harry is pretty sure Malfoy is rolling his eyes at him at this very moment, but he doesn’t care. “You could… err...”

_What? What? Ugh, if he could just stop tapping his finger for a moment!_

“Err… you could… oh!” Harry’s fingers squeeze around Malfoy’s. “You could tap my hand!” Sceptical silence. At least that’s what it feels like to Harry. “Yeah, you could tap my hand once if you want to say ‘no’ and two times for ‘yes’.”

Harry can only imagine Malfoy’s inner monologue right now.

_'What, you want to teach me Morse code, Potter? Like we’re a bunch of four-year-olds, playing around?’_

He ignores the imaginary comment and concentrates on any movement from Malfoy's hand.

“Malfoy?” Nothing. Harry feels disappointment bubbling up inside him. It was probably wishful thinking that he and Malfoy could get along for even a few minutes. He lowers his head and considers pulling away. Before he can decide, he feels it, on the back of his hand. Two taps. Harry grins in spite of himself.

“So you don’t think it’s stupid?” Malfoy doesn’t tap his hand. “You do think it’s stupid, don’t you?” Two taps. “Do you have a better idea?” One tap. “Well, then we’ll just stick with this. But maybe we should talk about something else next time.”

Next time. Will there even be a next time? Does he want there to be a next time?

Harry feels his face warm up and straightens himself.

_Just… distract him with something._

“You want to get some dinner?” he asks quickly. One tap. “Oh, come on. You really want to get another scolding from Madam Pomfrey?” He imagines Malfoy scowling at him and it almost makes him snigger. “Come on, let’s go.” He gets up, pulling Malfoy along with him.

After a few steps, Malfoy’s hand suddenly slips out of his. Surprised, Harry almost stumbles. Malfoy catches him, grabbing his upper arm. He starts guiding Harry, the way Ginny guided him before and Harry wonders why Malfoy didn’t just take his hand again.

_Really?_

The voice inside his head almost sounds like Malfoy now.

_You really want people to see Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy walking into the castle holding hands?_

“Oh. Right,” Harry mutters, feeling sheepish. For a moment, he forgot about that. With every step they take, his mood seems to be getting gloomier. He almost wishes he could take back what he just told Malfoy. No matter how hard they try, they can’t just pretend to be two boys, overcoming their animosity in the afternoon sun. It will take far more than that. Maybe it can’t be done at all.

But Harry’s mind keeps going back to the significance of what has just happened. They’ve had their first real conversation. Of some sort. Harry confided in Malfoy. Something, he hasn’t even done with his best friends. And to top it all off, Malfoy held his hand while he did it. And, in spite of everything, Harry almost wishes Malfoy hadn’t let go.

 

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

 

Draco blinks as his mind goes completely blank and his jaw drops to the ground.

_Did Potter just— What?_

He blinks some more, as though it will resolve his confusion.

 _Nice? Did he just— My hair looks_ nice _? What— What?_

His mother would probably tell him how unbecoming it is to gape at someone like that, but he can’t seem to move, still paralysed with shock, while he tries to ignore the strange buzzing in his ears.

_What the fuck?_

Draco positively jumps out of his skin when he suddenly feels Potter’s hand brushing his.

_WHAT THE FUCK?_

Potter quickly withdraws his hand, mumbling, “Sorry.”

Draco stares at him. What is he doing? Is he— Does he still have a fever? Is he still in some kind of delirium? Draco has no clue what to make of it. Did Potter just try to take his hand?

 _Oh Merlin, what if he did?_ Draco asks himself with a dreadful shudder. Then, with an equally dreadful feeling, he thinks, _What if he didn’t?_

Before he can let out a frustrated sigh, Potter suddenly convulses beside him. Draco’s eyes widen as he starts screaming at the top of his lungs. It sounds like the screams he had to listen to at the Manor. What is happening?

Potter starts flailing, and without thinking, Draco quickly wraps his arms around him. Irritatingly, he's strong and Draco has to put all his strength into restraining him. It feels like hours until Potter finally calms down and slumps in Draco’s arms.

_Fuck, is he unconscious again? Potter, you twat! What are you doing?_

Draco grabs his shoulders and starts shaking him.

_What’s wrong with you? What’s going on? Are you in pain? Are you dead? Fuck, say something!_

“Please stop,” Potter whimpers and Draco stiffens.

_Okay, neither unconscious, nor dead. That’s something, I guess._

His fingers dig into Potter’s robes as he tries to calm himself down.

_How dare you, Potter! How dare you scare me like that! Twice, in three days! I thought you were— Ugh! Fuck you!_

Draco feels Potter’s body tense under his fingers and slowly releases him. Maybe he had been holding on a little too tight, but what is he supposed to do when Potter pulls a stunt like that? He can’t just collapse over and over again. What if Draco hadn’t been there? What would Potter have done then?

_You arrogant, conceited little—_

“Wait,” he hears Potter murmur and pauses.

_Wait what?_

He furrows his brows, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

_Just spit it out, Potter. What is it?_

“Could you… could you stay here for another minute?”

If Draco’s jaw keeps dropping like this, he’ll have to let Madam Pomfrey take a look at it sooner or later. What is Potter even talking about? He isn’t going anywhere.

_Maybe you should be._

Huh. He could just go back to the castle. But then Potter would be left here on his own. Would he even be able to find his way back to the hospital wing? And what if he has another one of his… episodes? Whatever that had been.

_And why do you care exactly?_

He doesn’t. He doesn’t. He doesn’t.

_Oh, I see, what you’re doing. You’re doing that thing, where you keep repeating something, hoping it’ll come true if you say it often enough._

Draco grits his teeth. He doesn’t care what happens to Potter. He really, really doesn’t. It’s just… The prat seems to be some kind of magnet for trouble. Seeing him collapse like that, twice… It really fucks with Draco’s brain. Because… what if something _does_ happen to Potter?

His heart clenches uncomfortably in his chest and Draco has no idea what to make of it. He doesn’t know what to do, either, when his hand moves without his permission and finds its way to Potter’s. He stares, mesmerised, at his own fingers, as he feels Potter’s skin beneath his fingertips. It’s almost… comforting. It’s as though he has to make sure Potter is really here and won’t suddenly disappear into thin air.

Potter moves, letting their hands bump against each other and Draco’s heart almost leaps out of his chest. With shaking fingers, he turns over Potter’s hand and slowly traces the lines on his palm. His skin feels warm and, Draco supposes, it’s almost somewhat agreeable. Not that he’d ever admit that out loud. It’s absolute madness what he’s doing. But to be clear, he’s only doing it because Potter can’t see and he’s probably confused and upset and… Wait, Draco doesn’t care about that. But _he’s_ upset and this is kind of soothing… Not soothing in  _that_ kind of sense, just… not horrible, okay?

Draco closes his eyes and braces himself for what he knows his hand is going to do next. He’s not strong enough to stop it. His body simultaneously relaxes and tenses as he feels his palm slide against Potter’s, before he grabs his hand properly. He sees tiny stars exploding in front him, as if his body is mocking him for having this kind of reaction to Potter. His toes curl in his shoes and he suddenly feels his pulse hammering against his collarbone. Salazar’s balls, what has he done?

Wondering why Potter hasn’t pulled away yet, Draco opens his eyes and drops his gaze to their joined hands.

“I just saw Voldemort.”

Draco stiffens.

_You stupid prat! Why do you always have to say his name?_

Once more, Draco wishes Potter was mute as well. It would save him from a lot of headaches.

“He was torturing someone,” Potter continues.

This definitely isn’t what Draco thought would happen when Potter and his bloody fangirl had strolled over to him. He thought they would start an argument or something. Then again, he hadn’t expected Potter to tell Madam Pomfrey Draco was innocent, either. She seemed sceptical at first, but Potter assured her, over and over, that Draco had nothing to do with his collapse in the bathroom. Potter keeps surprising him. Hell, Draco keeps surprising himself and he’s not sure how he feels about that. It’s easier when the lines are clearly drawn. Now, they’re beginning to blur. But maybe Potter never learned to respect other people’s boundaries, Draco muses, as he listens to him blabbering about Draco’s father, and looking into the mind of the Dark Lord.

_This can’t get any more bizarre._

“It’s like, when he’s angry, I get angry. And when he tortures or kills someone… I can feel what he feels.”

_Oh, it can get more bizarre._

“And in these moments, he feels… gleeful. I just can’t imagine how someone can feel like that while they’re— It makes me sick.”

Draco nods. He agrees. He can’t understand it either. The Dark Lord’s cackling, as the life is drained from his victims’ eyes, still haunts his dreams.

“Did you see him? Over the summer?”

Draco shifts as he runs his hand through his hair. Potter can’t be serious right now. What does he expect? Does he expect Draco to give him a detailed report about the most horrifying months of his life? He wouldn’t, even if he were able to. Or… maybe he would. Draco doesn’t know what to think anymore.

“Maybe…”

Draco turns his head back to Potter.

“Maybe we could come up with a signal. You know, for when you want to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. It would make this… almost a conversation.”

Draco rolls his eyes, even though he has to admit it would be nice to at least be able to communicate in some manner.

“You could… err… you could… oh! You could tap my hand!”

Draco’s eyes drop to their joined hands again and he immediately stills his index finger. He hasn’t noticed he’s been doing that.

“Yeah, you could tap my hand once if you want to say ‘no’ and two times for ‘yes’.”

Draco deliberates letting go of Potter’s hand altogether and going back to the castle. This is nonsense. Whatever they’re doing right now, it’s absurd. Potter is being more irritating than ever.

_So you want to go back to ignoring each other?  
_

Draco mentally curses his traitorous mind as his eyes wander back to Potter’s face. His lips are parted and he seems to be holding his breath. Draco rolls his eyes again as he slowly taps the Gryffindor’s hand. He’s incredibly grateful Potter can’t see him right now. Because then, he would have seen his snarl turning into something much more delicate. And that scares Draco even more than his nightmares.

 


	7. Chapter 7

During the next few days, there’s a strange atmosphere in the hospital wing. It’s more awkward than it was before. Ron keeps getting more frustrated with their situation and so does Harry.

The news that Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup momentarily lifted his mood, but it was pushed to the back of his mind quicker than Ginny catching the Snitch. Far more pressing things are preoccupying him. Like the fact that he seems to be unable to get Malfoy out of his head. Not that that’s anything new, but now… it’s kind of… different. Even though he can hardly believe it, he finds himself wanting to talk to Malfoy. He actually _wants_ to talk to Malfoy. He doesn’t know what the hell is wrong with him. Maybe that curse took more than just his eyesight.

More than once, he tries to fight the urge to fumble his way over to his bed. He’s not sure how Malfoy would react to that. Plus, Ron might be deaf, but he isn’t oblivious and he can still see. He’d probably have a heart attack if he caught Harry sitting on Malfoy’s bed, talking to him. How would Harry explain that? He can’t even explain it to himself. His brain is starting to hurt from trying to figure out what the bloody hell it means. He has never felt the desire to talk to someone this badly before. The only one that comes to mind is Sirius, when he was on the run and Harry desperately wanted to know if he was alright. But that was a matter of life and death. There’s no plausible reason for Harry craving Malfoy’s company like that.

He feels his heart clench as his mind lingers on Sirius. Oh, how Harry wishes he could talk to him one last time. He feels betrayed. He never got the chance to get to know his godfather properly. There’s still so much Harry doesn’t know about him. Living with that kind of regret has been one of the hardest things Harry’s ever had to do. He doesn’t want that to happen again. He doesn’t want regret taking over his life like that.

He knows there are things he can’t change. He can’t bring Sirius back from the dead. But there are a few things he’d do differently, if he could go back in time. The question of ‘what if’ has tortured him ever since that night at the Ministry. He’s sick of it. Being hung up on ‘what if’ isn’t going to get him anywhere. And that, Harry thinks, is why he can’t stop trying to get to the bottom of this weird thing with Malfoy. He knows he’ll regret it if he doesn’t. Plus, he could never leave a mystery unsolved; and Malfoy might be the biggest one yet.

While they were sitting under that tree, Malfoy opened a door for him, which Harry is intent on not letting get closed again. It’s probably wishful thinking. What Harry wants right now is an illusion. It’s not real. He suspects he likes talking to Malfoy because it gives him reassurance. It’s the feeling of not being judged while he blurts out whatever is going on in his mind. But… just because Malfoy doesn’t, or rather can’t, comment on his blabbering, doesn’t mean he isn’t judging him. Harry knows that. But maybe, just for now, he doesn’t care.

It’s not like he’s ignoring the fact that this is still Malfoy; he can’t just condone the fact that he’s a Death Eater. There’s no excuse for that. Not even fear. Fear might actually be Voldemort’s greatest weapon. Harry almost wishes he could take that fear away from Malfoy. He wants to know if he’s actually loyal to Voldemort, or if he’s following orders because he’s given no other choice, because he’s being extorted. Because, if it is the latter, Harry can nearly forgive himself for having all these confusing thoughts about the git. He knows he’s driving himself up the wall, but he can’t stop. His self-restraint only goes so far.

That’s why, when Madam Pomfrey clears away their dinner plates, Harry gives in to the gnawing feeling in his chest.

“Could you please draw the curtains around my bed?” he asks her. “I just feel a little restless right now,” he adds hastily. “And I… would like some privacy.”

He feels a hand on his shoulder.

“I know it’s hard, dear,” she says softly. “I’m sure the teachers will find something to break the curse, very soon.”

Harry nods and smiles, trying to hide his impatience as he hears her draw the curtains.

“Get some sleep, dear.”

“Thank you.”

As soon as she’s gone, he opens one of the drawers of his bedside table and starts rummaging through it. He makes sure to do it as clumsily as possible and make lots of noise. After a few moments he stops, feeling the heat on his cheeks spread down to his neck. He clears his throat, praying that when he speaks, he won’t sound too squeaky.

“Um, Malfoy?” he mumbles. He listens intently for any sign of movement. “Could— Err— Could you come here for a sec?” He holds his breath. “Um, please?” he adds hastily and immediately regrets it. He almost feels panicked now, as he sits there and waits.

_I can’t believe I just did that! What am I thinking? Nothing, clearly! Oh, Merlin! This was a stupid idea! Why do I always do that? Think first, Harry! Think first!_

When he hears the curtain being drawn back, he swallows.

“Malfoy?”

Something’s rustling. Probably the curtain. Harry senses someone moving in front of him. And then he feels two taps on his hand.

“Yeah, um, could you… err… help me find some socks?” He swallows again. “Hermione put them in here somewhere, but I can’t find them.” It’s such an obvious lie, Harry almost cringes. There are at least three pairs of his bloody socks in this drawer. He just felt them.

He hears Malfoy moving again, and when he places something soft in Harry’s hands just a moment later, he wishes he hadn’t come up with this foolish excuse. But it would be even stupider to not go through with it now. So before Malfoy gets a chance to go back to his bed, Harry blurts,

“Err… since you’re already here… I mean— You’ve come all the way—” He gulps. Somehow, this is even worse than asking Cho Chang to the Yule Ball. It’s ridiculous, Harry thinks. Asking Cho to the ball had meant revealing he liked her. It’s nothing like that with Malfoy. Obviously. He just wants to talk to him. And yet, admitting he’d willingly talk to him somehow feels like a much bigger revelation.

He deliberates faking a coughing fit. Maybe that will make Malfoy go back to his bed. But then… he’ll be back in his bed, Harry will be in his, and he’ll be right back to where he started. He exhales loudly, plucking up all his courage. He isn’t a Gryffindor for nothing.

“Wouldyoumaybewanttokeepmecompany?”

Did Malfoy even understand that mumbled gibberish? Should he say it again?

_Noooo. You already made an ass of yourself. Just wait._

Silence, Harry learns, has become his greatest enemy. Closely followed by patience. He’s made his peace with disappointment; and yet, he’s surprised, and his heart sinks, when he hears the curtain being moved again, followed by footsteps. He should have seen it coming, really. He’s being naive, and he knows it.

He throws the socks to the foot of the bed and rakes his fingers through his hair. He sits there for a few minutes, not knowing what to do with himself. Of course Malfoy doesn’t want to keep him company. One brief conversation, which, really, had actually been a monologue on Harry’s end, and a bit of hand-holding don’t mean anything. But, why had Malfoy done it? It would have made things so much easier, if he had just left the first time. Harry wouldn’t be so confused and he wouldn’t be so downcast because Draco bloody Malfoy doesn’t want to talk to him.

_Isn’t that ironic._

He can’t talk to Malfoy, he can’t talk to Ron, he can’t help Dumbledore with the horcruxes…

Oh.

He realises he hasn’t thought about the horcruxes in a while. He and Dumbledore should be working on finding them right now. Instead, he’s sitting here, being completely useless. Has Dumbledore found anything new yet? Is he too preoccupied finding something to break the curse?

Once again, Harry starts berating himself for getting everyone into this mess. If he would just start to think before he acts. But he doubts that will ever happen. It’s just who he is. Hot-headed and impulsive and… he doesn’t like to admit it, but he can be a little stubborn, too. Yeah, maybe more than just a little. Which is why he won’t give up on Malfoy, he decides. He might not want to talk to him now, but Harry will make sure he does. He senses there’s more to him than what he’s always assumed. There’s got to be. What other explanation is there for his weird behaviour in the past week?

As Harry keeps brooding, he suddenly hears something. Is it his curtains? Is someone there? He feels a hand on his upper arm, pushing him. Startled, he tumbles sideways, before he feels a dip in the mattress.

“M—Malfoy?” he splutters. He waits for the taps on his hand and surely enough, he feels them a second later.

 _He came back_ , he thinks, puzzled. Slowly, he straightens himself, but stiffens when his shoulder touches Malfoy. He doesn’t move away, which Harry takes as a good sign. He wonders what made Malfoy change his mind.

_Does it really matter? He came back._

Harry clears his throat awkwardly.

“Sooo…” He stretches out his hands, only to realise he has no idea what to do with them. He quickly puts them in his lap and purses his lips. He got what he wanted. Malfoy is right beside him. And now, he has no idea what to do.

_But he’s here. Just start talking._

“Um…”

 _Eloquent as ever_ , he hears the voice in his head say, which, irritatingly, sounds like Malfoy, again. Harry reminds himself that he won’t say anything. He might _think_ Harry is a dense oaf, but he won’t be able to tell him. It’s reassuring enough for Harry to take a deep breath, and blurt out the first thing that comes to his mind.

“Um, do you remember the first time we met? At Madam Malkin’s?” He doesn’t even know where he’s going with this. This probably isn’t the best topic either, but he has been thinking about that day a lot, lately. Before he can say something else, Malfoy taps his hand twice.

“Yeah.” He pauses. “You probably thought I was some clueless Muggle-born.”

Malfoy doesn’t give any response to that.

“Would you’ve treated me differently, if you had realised who I was?”

Malfoy doesn’t answer this question either, and Harry starts to wonder why he came over, if he doesn’t want to participate in the conversation. Or maybe he wants to, but he doesn’t know what to say. Maybe ‘yes’ and ‘no’ isn’t enough.

“Are you… not sure how to answer that?” Two taps. “Huh. Yeah, we kinda limited your choice of answers, didn’t we?” He considers this, frowning in concentration. “How about this,” he says, and puts his index finger on Malfoy’s hand. “If you want to say ‘I don’t know’, you do this.” He draws a short line on the back of Malfoy’s hand. “Okay?”

Malfoy gives a quick jerk, as if he just coughed. Or maybe he snorted, Harry isn’t sure. He knows this is absurd, but what else can they do?

“So,” he sighs, “would you have treated me differently, if you had realised who I was?”

Malfoy repeats the signal Harry just suggested, making him feel quite pleased with himself. But when the finger lingers on his hand, he feels warmth rush to his cheeks. It takes him a second to realise what Malfoy is doing, what he’s probably looking at, while his finger traces the marred skin on Harry’s hand.

“Oh, yeah. That was— um… detention with Umbridge last year.”

Malfoy pauses, but keeps his finger on Harry’s hand. What is he thinking? Harry will never know.

“Obviously I had no clue who _you_ were when we first met,” he continues, after clearing his throat. “But it was pretty clear from the start that you were a pompous arse.”

Harry grunts when something suddenly hits him in the ribs. After a second, he concludes it must have been Malfoy’s elbow. He didn’t hit him hard, but Harry doesn’t go as far as to interpret it as playful.

“Hey, I said _were_ . You _were_ a pompous arse.” Of course, Harry still thinks he is, but there’s no need for details now. To his surprise, Malfoy taps his hand twice.

“Huh. So you agree?”

Harry laughs out loud when Malfoy elbows him again. This time, it does feel playful and it does weird things to Harry’s stomach.

“This is so weird,” he murmurs as his laughter slowly subsides. There’s probably no need to point that out to Malfoy. Maybe he’ll decide it’s too weird and go back to his bed. Harry feels uneasy about not wanting him to leave, afraid to acknowledge what it means. But he can’t deny he’s enjoying himself. A little. Maybe not as much as when he’s talking to his actual friends, but, right now, it’s pleasant enough.

He wonders if there had ever even been a chance of them becoming friends. No, probably not. Still, he’s curious what Malfoy thinks about it.

“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if we had become friends?”

Malfoy taps his hand once and Harry automatically waits for another one. It doesn’t come.

“Really, you don’t think about it? Ever?”

He feels Malfoy shift beside him and gets the impression he’s getting uneasy.

“Everything would have been so different,” Harry murmurs. “I can’t even imagine—”

_— not hating you._

The words die on the tip of his tongue. Not because it’s not true. Obviously it is. Obviously, he—

_Ugh, don’t go there. Just keep talking._

Harry, for once, agrees with the voice inside his head.

“We probably would have made the history books, though,” he says, trying to sound light-hearted. “A Slytherin and a Gryffindor being friends…” He laughs nervously. The silence that follows seems significant somehow and Harry quickly coughs to break the tension. Being ‘light-hearted’ around Malfoy is proving to be very difficult.

“But even if you had been my friend, I still would have kicked your arse at Quidditch every single time, obviously.”

This time, when Malfoy tries to elbow him, Harry dodges the blow by quickly leaning forward and grabbing his wrist.

“Ha! I knew you were going to do that,” he announces in triumph. He felt Malfoy shift and even though making a grab for his wrist had been a lucky chance, he can’t help but feel smug about it. It’s easier now, coping with the loss of his eyesight. His other senses seem to make up for it. Kind of.

Malfoy makes a weird noise, almost like a gurgle, and Harry opens his mouth to ask him what’s wrong, when he realises his hand is still tightly wrapped around the other boy’s wrist. Oh. He quickly loosens his grip and waits for Malfoy to snatch his hand away. He doesn’t. It’s almost as though they’re both afraid to move, while Harry’s hand hovers over Malfoy’s. Harry inhales through his mouth as he feels the Slytherin slowly lower his arm and Harry’s hand follows the movement. It’s almost as though Malfoy’s arm is a magnet, attracting Harry with an invisible force. He presses his lips together when he feels Malfoy’s long fingers fanned out on the mattress, trapped beneath his palm. He swallows, wondering why this doesn’t feel as weird as it probably should. Tentatively, he balls his hand into a light fist around Malfoy’s fingers and lets out the breath he hasn’t realised he’s been holding.

“Your hands are cold,” he murmurs absentmindedly, his thumb brushing over the other boy’s fingertips. “Your hands are always cold.”

_But they’re also soft._

Harry stretches out his pinky, and slowly lets it glide over the smooth skin, marvelling at the curious sensation that’s bubbling up in his chest. He repeats the motion, his pinky slowly stroking Malfoy’s skin, until the reality of what he’s doing suddenly crashes down on him. He stiffens, while a gigantic wave of embarrassment hits him, flooding his cheeks with heat.

_Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!_

The urge to pull away is almost unbearable, but Harry forces himself to let his hand lie still, while he prays Malfoy can’t hear his erratic, thundering heartbeat. If he withdraws his hand now, it might shatter this… thing that might almost come close to something resembling a… well, not friendship. Maybe… an amicable acquaintance? Whatever it is, he doesn’t want to ruin it. Actually, he doesn’t know what he wants at all.

_Just… distract him._

“Um… Are your hands always this cold?” he asks stupidly. Malfoy answers by wiggling his index finger twice in his grasp and Harry feels more heat rushing to his cheeks.

“Must be uncomfortable,” he mumbles. “Your hands must hurt when you’re flying… No wonder you never manage to catch the Snitch.” He sniggers. “Well, that, and lack of talent, of course.”

Malfoy forcefully bumps his shoulder with his own, making Harry wince. But when he realises the Slytherin has curled his fingers around his hand and is squeezing it lightly, he can’t keep the corners of his mouth from twitching.

They continue their light banter until Harry yawns so widely, Malfoy finally lets go of his hand and gives him a slap on his thigh. Harry doesn’t know whether to swear or grin. It’s almost possible to pretend they’re just two normal people, sitting on a bed.

Much too soon for Harry’s liking, Malfoy gets up and walks over to his bed. Harry listens as he gets under the covers and tries to ignore how weirdly empty his hand suddenly feels.

 

* * *

 

“Is it… lemon?” One tap.

“Strawberry?” One tap.

“Hazelnut?” One tap.

“Chocolate?” One tap.

“What?” Harry exclaims. “Who doesn’t like chocolate ice cream? You’re weird. Okay, err… is it… butter pecan?” One tap.

“Ugh! Come on! I’m going to guess it. Just wait and see! Ugh, what else is there? Is it raspberry?” One tap.

“Pistacchio?” Two taps.

“Is it— Wait, what? Your favourite ice cream flavour is pistacchio?” Two taps.

“Pistacchio?” Harry repeats, sounding scandalised. “I would have thought it’s something… more fancy. Like, err, Lavender, or something covered with beatgold.”

Like always, Malfoy’s eye-roll is very clear in Harry’s mind’s eye. This guessing game might be silly, but Harry decided it’s probably better to stay on the lighter side of things for the moment. There are enough things keeping him awake at night.

It’s almost like they’ve fallen into some kind of routine now, Malfoy plopping down beside him after Harry has drawn the curtains. They do it every night, after dinner. Harry feels sorry for excluding Ron like that, but he can’t help being excited as soon as he feels the familiar dip in the mattress. And, if Harry had to guess, he’d say Malfoy is enjoying himself as well. It hasn’t escaped his notice that the Slytherin is eating again. Well, he’s trying. Madam Pomfrey comments on it every time, scolding him for not finishing his serving, but at least he’s eating something.

What’s a little less reassuring, however, is the other thing Harry has noticed; they’re only holding hands when he initiates it. Malfoy seems to be fine with it, but he never makes the first move. Harry finds himself getting used to touching him but, sometimes, he deliberately leaves his hands in his lap, waiting for Malfoy to do something. He never does. At some point, Harry always gets frustrated and caves. It feels like admitting defeat, amongst so many other unspoken sentiments, but he knows he’ll deeply regret not doing it as soon as Malfoy gets up and walks over to his own bed. Still, there are some unforeseen complications.

He keeps having these dreams about Malfoy, disturbing ones, in which he scoots closer, lays his head on Harry’s shoulder, or wraps his arms around him. It always results in confusion and Harry being flustered in the morning. Because dream-Harry really seems to like what Malfoy is doing.

 _What is wrong with me?_ he asks himself over and over again. He doesn’t have much experience when it comes to anything romantic, but he’s pretty sure he should be dreaming about the girl he fancies, not the arrogant arse he has hated for the last six years. So, why is it that his stomach seems to be twisting itself into a knot whenever Malfoy pops into his head? That can’t be right.

So they’re holding hands sometimes, big deal. It would be the same as holding Ron’s hand. Except… he and Ron have never done that. Huh. Maybe he would feel better if he tried it?

As it turns out, holding Ron’s hand only makes matters worse. Much worse. Harry feels extremely stupid when he blindly reaches for Ron’s hand, instead of letting his friend grab his arm, as he guides him to the showers the next day. Ron seems startled at first, but doesn’t comment on it as they walk down the corridor. This definitely feels… different, Harry decides after a while. Ron’s hand is too warm and too big. It doesn’t fit quite as nicely as… the other hand. And, to Harry’s disappointment, it doesn’t make his heart skip a beat and the fluttery feeling in his chest fails to appear as well.

_So, it’s really Malfoy? Really?_

Harry internally groans. He’s hyper-aware of Malfoy’s arm pressing against his tonight. Trying to restrain himself from letting his hands immediately wander over to his right, he bombards Malfoy with questions about his childhood. Apparently, he had twelve brooms growing up, his own playroom, and another room just for his books. Harry hadn’t picked him for the bookish type, which is why every little detail fascinates him even more.

“Did you have a pet?” One tap.

“Yeah, me neither. I mean, I didn’t have anything, really. I guess that’s the big difference between us.” He lets his head fall back. “I didn’t have any friends either, before I came to Hogwarts. Everyone already knew who I was, while I was still trying to figure out what was going on. I had no idea I was a wizard… And Ron was the first person who didn’t judge me. He’s a really good friend. My best friend. He always has my back. Except in fourth year. I still can’t believe he was jealous of me becoming a Triwizard Champion. We didn’t speak for weeks. That wanker really thought I was enjoying myself. As if I like being in the spotlight. Ugh, do you remember the Yule Ball?” Harry realises much too late he’s been babbling. When Malfoy taps his hand twice, he tries to hide his embarrassment.

“Yeah, the music was awful, wasn’t it?” One tap. That’s a no. Really?

“What, you enjoyed that?” Two taps. “Clearly, you’re insane,” Harry says in a teasing tone. “Shouldn’t really surprise me, though. I mean, you went with Pansy Parkinson. That tells me enough about your taste. Oh, Merlin, please don’t tell me you kissed her at the end of the night? You did, didn’t you? Ugh, it must have been dreadful! Honestly, how could you—”

Harry jumps when Malfoy suddenly shuts him up by pressing his hand on his mouth.

“Srusly?” Harry tries to wrench Malfoy’s hands away from his mouth, but he’s much stronger than Harry anticipated. “Mlfoy!” When all attempts fail, Harry lets his hands drop to his side again. He acts like he admits defeat, while his lips curl into a mischievous smile. He opens his mouth and, in one swift motion, licks his palm. Malfoy jerks and immediately withdraws his hand.

Harry starts laughing so loud, for a second he’s worried he’ll wake Madam Pomfrey.

“Oh, Merlin,” he wheezes, shaking with laughter. “I wish I could see your face right now.”

When he realises Malfoy is shaking as well, he feels something warm in the pit of his belly. Malfoy is laughing. He’s sitting beside Harry, on his bed, and he’s laughing. Harry desperately wishes he could hear the sound of that laugh. He has never heard Malfoy laugh before. In a derisive way, yes, but never a real one.

Harry starts to shake even harder when he feels Malfoy’s hand on his thigh as he wipes it on Harry’s pyjamas.

“Yuck! Stop that,” he howls in mock disgust. He playfully slaps Malfoy’s hand away, but decides to grab his arm halfway through. As soon as he does, Malfoy becomes completely rigid. Harry frowns in confusion.

_What? What just happened?_

They’re both perfectly still, but Harry can tell Malfoy is panting, from the way his shoulder is moving against Harry’s. His frown deepens as he racks his brain for a plausible explanation.

What could Harry have done to upset Malfoy like this? He just grabbed his arm. Absentmindedly, he moves his fingers against the soft fabric of the Slytherin’s pyjamas, but hat seems to upset him even more. He forcibly pulls his arm out of Harry’s grip and leans away.

“What—” Harry still doesn’t understand. “Did I do something?”

Malfoy doesn’t respond.

“Did I hurt you?” No response. “Do you not like it when someone touches… your… arm…”

And suddenly, it clicks.

“I just touched it, didn’t I?” he says in a serious tone. He takes a deep breath. “I just touched the spot where he marked you.”

The mattress shifts and Harry knows Malfoy is gone before he even hears the rustle of the curtain.

He knows the next day that Malfoy is keeping his distance. He knows it’s pointless to wait for him, but Harry sits and waits in his bed for a long time after dinner. Apparently, a part of him just won’t give up hope. He stays awake the whole night, until he hears the first signs of morning, of the castle coming to life again. His chest aches as he pushes his face into the pillow, trying not to scream. He punches the mattress, hating himself for the inexcusable yearning he feels.

The thought of him almost touching the Dark Mark is sickening and it reminds him of all the reasons why Malfoy isn’t his friend. He’s his enemy. And yet, there’s this one thought that’s somehow even worse than all of that, sending a stab to his chest over and over again.

Malfoy probably won’t come to his bed ever again.

 

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

 

Potter has come into the habit of drawing circles on Draco’s hand while he’s thinking. Draco wonders if he’s even aware of that. Whenever the Gryffindor touches him, it seems like a reflex, rather than a deliberate move. Draco can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.

“Did you have a pet as a child?” Potter asks. Draco taps his hand once.

“Yeah, me neither. I mean, I didn’t have anything really. I guess that’s the big difference between us.”

_Right, not the fact that you’re Harry Potter and I’m the Dark Lord’s slave._

“I didn’t have any friends either, before I came to Hogwarts,” Potter continues, his voice suddenly sounding weary. “Everyone already knew who I was while I was still trying to figure out what was going on. I had no idea I was a wizard…”

What? Draco didn’t know that. He heard Potter had been raised by Muggles, but they didn’t tell him he’s a wizard? Had they not known?

“And Ron was the first person who didn’t judge me.”

It’s hard not to react to these words. Potter is basically saying ‘He didn’t judge me, unlike you’.

“He’s a really good friend. My best friend. He always has my back. Except in fourth year. I still can’t believe he was jealous of me becoming a Triwizard Champion. We didn’t speak for weeks. That wanker really thought I was enjoying myself.”

Even though Draco has always avoided to think about what it would have been like if Potter and him had become friends, he can’t help but think they would have fought a lot more than Potter and Weasley. But maybe it would have been worth it.

“As if I like being in the spotlight.”

Draco blinks. He always assumed Potter enjoyed all the disgusting attention.

“Ugh, do you remember the Yule Ball?”

How could Draco ever forget? Pansy hadn’t stopped talking the whole night, while Draco had eyed Potter in his bottle-green robes from afar.

“Yeah, the music was awful, wasn’t it?”

_The music wasn’t what was awful about that night._

“What, you enjoyed that?”

_More than watching you ogling Chang and Diggory the whole time._

“Clearly, you’re insane. Shouldn’t really surprise me, though. I mean, you went with Pansy Parkinson. That tells me enough about your taste. Oh, Merlin, please don’t tell me you kissed her at the end of the night?”

Draco grits his teeth as Potter makes a face. 

“You did, didn’t you? Ugh, it must have been dreadful! Honestly, how could you—”

Draco doesn’t need another reminder of that. He watches in amusement as Potter tries to shove his hand aside.

 _Serves you right, you prat,_ Draco thinks. When he suddenly feels Potter’s tongue, he almost falls off the bed. For the first time he’s glad he has lost his voice. The squeal that would have left his lips would have probably been loud enough to wake half the castle.

“Oh, Merlin, I wish I could see your face right now.”

Draco blinks, still stunned from Potter licking his hand, but also from the sight before him. Potter looks so different when he laughs. Younger. Carefree. Draco’s eyes fixate on the little crinkles on Potter’s nose and around his eyes. He shakes his head and Draco’s gaze falls on his dimples. Potter has dimples. How could he have not noticed that before?

The ridiculousness of the situation slowly sinks in, and before he knows what came over him, Draco is shaking with laughter as well. The muscles around his mouth feel weird as he gasps for air. It’s almost as if his face has forgotten what it feels like to laugh. He wipes his hand on Potter's pyjamas and is even more amused when the other boy slaps his hand away.

The laughter dies in his throat when he realises Potter has grabbed his arm, his left arm, his fingers currently only separated from the Dark Mark by Draco’s pyjamas. He stops breathing. He stops blinking. His eyes start to burn as something vile creeps its way up his throat.

He has been such a fool. How could he have thought that things could be different? How could he have let himself be deluded like that? That mark represents everything Potter hates. That mark is the reason this can never happen.

“What— Did I do something?” Potter asks. He sounds genuinely worried. “Did I hurt you? Do you not like it when someone touches… your… arm…”

He seems to have figured it out. For the first time, Draco doesn’t just feel regret for taking the mark. He feels ashamed.

“I just touched it, didn’t I? I just touched the spot where he marked you.”

He can’t take this. He can’t just sit here and pretend that this is okay. Aside from _Potter_ almost touching the tainted skin on his arm, Draco doesn’t even want to think about what would have happened, if he hadn’t been wearing long sleeved pajamas. Potter would have accidentally summoned the Dark Lord.

He storms over to his own bed, hot tears already streaming down his cheeks. He starts sobbing into his pillow, hoping Potter won’t come after him. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll stay away. He’ll stay away from Draco as he should have in the first place.


	8. Chapter 8

Miserable. That’s the only accurate word to describe how Harry has been feeling. He’s absolutely miserable. Not even the news that Snape and Slughorn have started to brew a potion that might break the curse brightened his mood.

“I would have thought you would show a little more appreciation for the hard work we have been putting into this, gentlemen,” McGonagall snapped when she told them. Ron, of course, had no idea what she just said, while Harry didn’t even lift his head.

“Thanks, Professor,” he murmured, before he resumed wallowing in self-pity.

Hermione, of course, has noticed the changes in him and even though Harry knows she means well, he really wishes she would stop talking.

“Just tell me what’s going on, Harry! Didn’t you hear what McGonagall said? I think there might be a good chance the potion will work.”

“Yeah,” Harry mutters and pulls up the blanket to his chin.

“Apparently, it’s really complicated to brew,” Hermione continues. “Professor McGonagall mentioned something about ghost matter. The teachers think the spells somehow merged with Myrtle. I didn’t understand all of it,” she says ruefully. “Harry, I think—”

“Hermione, no offence, but I’m not really in the mood to talk right now. Why don’t you go over to Ron?”

Even though he can’t see her face, he immediately feels a pang of guilt. He didn’t mean to snap like that. He hears footsteps, indicating Hermione is doing what he told her.

“I brought you something,” he hears her murmur.

“What is this? A book?” Ron sounds sceptical. “'Why are we embarrassed by silence? What comfort do we find in all the noise?' Is this supposed to cheer me up? Great. Thanks,” Ron says sarcastically.

“You know what,” Hermione bellows, “I was just trying to help, but _clearly_ neither of you need me for that.”

Harry is torn between feeling bad and irritated as he listens to her stomp out of the hospital wing. It’s been two weeks. She must be frustrated as well. Maybe Harry should have shown a little more enthusiasm at the good news after all. But he doesn’t feel enthusiastic. At all.

Malfoy has stopped eating again and Harry’s chest aches at the thought of how thin and weak he must be getting. He doesn’t seem to be sleeping well either. After listening to him toss and turn for a few nights, Harry concludes he must be having nightmares.

When he hears the Slytherin pant and gasp one night, Harry finds himself at war with his conscience. Whatever Malfoy is dreaming about, he probably deserves it. He’s not a good person, and he’s not worth—

Harry can’t even finish the thought. Yes, a part of him knows what he’s about to do is wrong, maybe pointless, most of all madness, but before his mind can come up with more reasons to stop him, Harry’s impulsiveness takes over and he’s out of bed. He tiptoes over to Malfoy’s bed and tentatively feels around until he finds his shoulder.

“Malfoy,” he hisses. “Malfoy, wake up!” Harry has to say his name five more times before he jerks and finally stills.

“It’s okay,” Harry whispers in what he hopes is a soothing tone. “It was just a dream.”

Harry has enough experience with nightmares to know that it usually takes a second before it sinks in that you’re awake again, that it wasn’t real. So he waits, wanting to make sure Malfoy is fully conscious before he goes back to his own bed. But Malfoy’s breathing doesn’t slow down, even after several moments. Harry doesn’t need to ask what the dream was about. He has a pretty good idea.

“Are you okay?” he asks. This is probably the last thing Malfoy wants, for Harry to witness another moment of weakness. He knows he has too much pride to just let it go. But does he really think Harry would use it against him now?

“Malfoy, are you okay?” Obviously, he’s not. He’s still panting and every now and then, his body gives a violent shiver. Unsure of what to do, and acting on impulse again, Harry reaches out until his fingers find Malfoy’s cheek. He gently puts his hand on the side of his face, his pulse picking up at the far too intimate gesture.

“I know what it’s like,” he murmurs. “Try to take deep breaths.”

 _It must be so frustrating,_ Harry thinks, _not being able to say anything. Not being able to tell someone you’re scared. Not that Malfoy would actually admit that._

Warmth rushes to Harry’s face when he realises he has been stroking Malfoy’s cheek absentmindedly. He clears his throat and lets his hand drop to his side.

“Are you going to be alright?” It takes a few moments before Malfoy answers his question with a yes.

“Good,” Harry murmurs. He’s about to turn around when he feels Malfoy hastily gripping his wrist.

“What? What is it?” Harry says in surprise. “Do you need something?”

Malfoy doesn’t move.

“Do you need some water?” There’s no ‘yes’ or ‘no’, only more pressure on his wrist.

_What does he want me to do?_

He notices how Malfoy’s hand is shaking, how sweaty his palm is.

_Is this him admitting he’s scared?_

Harry doesn’t want to jump to any conclusions. That won’t go down well. But, as always, his tongue is quicker than his brain.

“Do you want me to stay?” The room is eerily silent, except for Harry’s heartbeat, which drums so loudly in his ears, he wonders if Malfoy can hear it, too.

“Do you—” Two taps. Yes.

Harry bites the inside of his cheek.

“Are you sure?”

Malfoy moves his fingers over Harry’s wrist and slowly taps it again. Twice.

No longer hesitating, Harry sits down on the bed, leaning his back against the headboard. The grip on his wrist loosens, as Malfoy readjusts himself. Harry tries to move as little as possible as Malfoy lays his head on his lap and grabs a handful of his pyjamas. He starts shaking again and Harry has no idea what to do. This is completely uncharted territory.

He can’t help but notice the grotesque irony of the situation. A few days ago, the roles were reversed. Malfoy was the one to comfort him in the aftermath of what Harry had seen in Voldemort’s mind. He remembers how it felt when Malfoy touched his hand for the first time. It was such a simple gesture and yet, it unleashed so much in Harry.

Driven by a new sense of determination, Harry’s fingertips reach out to where Malfoy is clutching his pyjamas. He gently rubs his thumb over his skin while his other hand finds its way into his hair. He brushes his fingers through it, not surprised at how soft it feels. What does surprise him, however, is the weird tingling in his belly, and the warmth that suddenly rushes to his nether regions. He feels himself blush and he mentally slaps himself.

_First of all, now is not the time! And second… seriously?_

Despite his mind’s chastisement, he feels his pants getting tighter as Malfoy moves his head in his lap.

_By Godric, this is so wrong. So wrong!_

How can he get… excited, while Malfoy is having a breakdown? Strike that. How can he get this excited around Malfoy at all? He doesn’t want— Does he? Oh Merlin. Maybe he’s just confused. He’s not used to him and Malfoy getting along, of course it messes with his head. And his body, apparently. No need to open Pandora’s box, just yet. Right?

He has no idea how much time has passed when Malfoy finally starts to calm down. His fist unclenches and Harry seizes the chance to take Malfoy’s hand in his. The other boy is still shaking, Harry realises, and without thinking, he intertwines their fingers. Carefully, he pulls Malfoy’s head further up, until it rests against his chest, and slips his other arm around him.

Harry had always wondered what it would be like to hold somebody like that. Or to be held. Memories of his dreams, about Malfoy holding him, pop into his head, but he has to admit, having Malfoy in his arms for real is much nicer than he imagined. He wonders if it’s the same for Malfoy. Oh. Maybe it isn’t.

“Is this— I mean, are you comfortable? Is this… okay for you?”

Malfoy lets out a shaky breath before he slowly taps Harry’s knuckles twice. Yes.

“Okay, good,” Harry mumbles in relief, feeling like an idiot. Malfoy shivers against him, prompting Harry to tighten his arms around him.

“Are you cold?” he asks quietly. One tap. “Do you— Whoa!” Harry doesn’t know what’s happening when Malfoy suddenly sits up.

“What’s wrong?”

Nothing happens for a moment, then he feels a finger digging into his chest.

“What? What did I do?” Harry stiffens as Malfoy draws a line on his chest with his finger. And another one. And another one. He furrows his brow in confusion, as he tries to deduce what Malfoy is trying to tell him. Lines… on his chest…

A gigantic wave of horror washes over him, as understanding slowly hits him.

“Oh. Was I— Was I touching your chest?” Two taps. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

Once more, Harry desperately wishes he could see the other boy’s face. He can’t tell how mad he is and what he’s going to do next. Last time Harry touched Malfoy where he didn’t want him to, he stormed off. Should Harry just go?

“Do you want me to leave?” Harry asks, embarrassed by how dejected he sounds.

_I will if you ask me to… but I don’t want to._

The amount of relief he feels when Malfoy answers with _No_ should probably embarrass him as well, but he can’t think about that, not when Malfoy is nestling himself up against him and takes his hand again.

If anyone had told him a few weeks ago, Draco Malfoy would be lying in his arms and it’s actually not the worst feeling in the world, Harry would have told them to bugger off. But a lot has happened in the last two weeks. And even though it hasn’t all been bad, there are some things Harry wishes he could take back.

“Do they hurt?” he asks softly. “The scars?” At first, Harry thinks Malfoy isn’t going to answer. It feels like minutes have passed when Malfoy taps once. No _._ Harry nods, unable to fight the guilt bubbling up inside him, threatening to spill out of him. He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat.

“I wish I hadn’t gone after you.”

He lowers his head and squeezes Malfoy’s hand.

“I shouldn’t have done that. And I shouldn’t have— What I did to you… I think about it every day. And I want you to know I’m sor—” Before Harry can finish, there’s a finger on his lips. He inhales sharply and shakes his head.

“What, don’t you want me to apologise?”

One tap. No.

“Why?”

There’s no answer.

_Of course not, it wasn’t a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question!_

Harry senses this is probably the point where he should stop talking. Unless Malfoy can tell him what’s going on, and why he doesn’t want Harry to apologise, he’ll just manoeuvre himself into a dead end.

“Maybe we should talk about this another time,” he murmurs and wriggles into a more comfortable position. It’s strange, Harry thinks; he has never considered it could feel more pleasant to lie in bed while another person is there with him. He usually likes his space. He has been so intent on unravelling this new side of Malfoy, he didn’t expect to discover something about himself along the way.

 

* * *

 

Somebody is poking his shoulder.

 _Ouch_.

They’re not doing it very gently.

_Ouch!_

Why won’t they stop?

_OUCH!_

“What?” Harry snaps irritatedly and sits up.

“Harry?” It’s Ron. He sounds weird. His voice is high-pitched and shaky. “What— What— What—”

“What? What’s so important?”

“Harry,” Ron squeaks, “what are you doing in Malfoy’s bed?”

Harry chokes as he feels all the warmth drain from his face.

_Shit! Shit, shit, shit!_

“Um…”

_How do I get out of this one?_

Panicked, he fumbles around the bed. He doesn’t know what good it will do to wake up Malfoy, since he won’t be able to explain what’s going on either.

“Did you trade beds or something?” Ron asks. Harry opens his mouth and closes it again. Trade beds? His fumbling becomes more urgent, until he realises he’s the only one in this bed. Momentarily relieved, Harry exhales loudly and buries his face in his hands.

“Harry?”

“It’s nothing, Ron,” Harry says, shaking his head, and gesturing dismissively.

“Harry!” Apparently, Ron won’t let this go. Harry groans, and pulls the covers over his head. As relieved as he is that Ron didn’t find him in a tight embrace with Malfoy, he also feels disappointed.

_Where is Malfoy? Since when has he been gone?_

Harry has no explanation as to why he’s reacting like this. He shouldn’t feel this gutted. But he does.

Last night, he thought he was one step closer to solving the mystery of the closed book that is Draco Malfoy. Now, he isn’t so sure anymore.

 

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

 

Draco listens to the heartbeat that’s drumming against his cheek. Steady and reassuring. He was afraid to fall asleep again, afraid to see what the next dream would bring. He tried to fight it, but the darkness had overpowered him mercilessly. And that’s all there was. Darkness. No other dreams. It’s the first time in weeks Draco has slept more than two hours. That alone is astonishing. The most curious thing, however, is waking up next to Potter. Or rather, on top of Potter.

Fortunately, he seems to be fast asleep, giving Draco a few more moments to indulge himself in, what he imagines, must be heaven. He tries to tune out the voice in his head, screaming he doesn’t deserve this. He knows he doesn’t.

For the longest time, Draco has succeeded in swallowing his feelings, turning every hint of sentiment for Potter into anger and loathing. It worked out fine so far. Draco never lets himself think about Potter in any other way. It would break him.

But now, suddenly, what Draco has longed for seems to be within his reach. And he wants it. Desperately. But he can’t let hope cloud his senses. It’s foolish. It’s delusional. It can never happen. It will never happen. Because this, Draco lying in Potter’s arms, is just another demonstration of his helper syndrome. It doesn’t mean anything. Draco doesn’t mean anything to him. He’s nothing.

Impelled by his self-loathing, Draco gets out of bed and changes in a hurry. He needs to get out of here. Now. It’s almost dawn. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He just keeps walking.

_Away from Potter._

He can’t stand another minute of being in the same room with him. Draco walks and walks, until he looks around disoriented and finds himself in front of a stone gargoyle. His eyes widen. Dumbledore’s office. Why in Salazar’s name has he ended up here of all places?

The memory of the Headmaster’s last visit to the hospital wing pops into his head.

_“Love without hope is a rather cruel concept, don’t you think?”_

Draco’s stomach twists and he leans against the wall. Is there anything the bloody old fool doesn’t know?

_He doesn’t know I’m trying to kill him._

He sinks down to the ground, hugging his knees, unable to stop the hot tears in his eyes from brimming over.

 _What should I do?_ he asks himself. _What should I do?_


	9. Chapter 9

It’s almost noon now, and Malfoy still hasn’t returned to the hospital wing. Harry doesn’t understand why everyone seems to be so calm about this.

“He could be hurt! He could be lying somewhere, dying!” A part of him knows he’s being overly dramatic. Malfoy probably just went for a walk. A long one, apparently. Still, he feels restless and worried. What if something _did_ happen to him? What if Voldemort—

“Since when do you care about that?” Hermione asks. Her tone isn’t as sharp as her question. Harry immediately feels sheepish.

“I don’t,” he mumbles, suspecting Hermione doesn’t believe him.

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” she assures him with a pat on his back. “Why don’t you come to the library with us? It will take your mind off things.”

“And do what, exactly?” Harry asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Oh, well… We could try and study together. I could read to you from the textbooks,” she offers.

“I don’t think Madam Pince would be too happy about that,” he murmurs. “It’s okay. I’ll just stay here.”

_And wait for Malfoy._

“Alright. But I’m here if you need anything.” She pauses. “You know that, right?”

“I do,” Harry says with a smile. “Thanks, Hermione.”

“Come on, Ron. Let’s go.”

“I can’t believe I’m going to the library when I don’t even have to go to classes,” Ron grumbles. “But I guess it’s better than sitting around here all day. See you later, Harry. Oh. I mean—”

Harry grins and starts waving. He misses Ron’s sheepish face.

After they’re gone, he strains his ears for any sign of Malfoy. It’s driving him mad that he can’t just go out and look for him himself. It would be pointless. Still, sitting back has never been his strong suit.

Before he can change his mind, he jumps off the bed and fumbles his way to the door. Madam Pomfrey is probably going to have a heart attack when she sees all her patients are gone, while she only gave one of them permission to leave, but Harry can’t bring himself to care enough about that. He needs to find Malfoy.

With one hand on the wall and one hand outstretched in front of him, he makes his way through the castle. He hates being so slow. He can hear students chattering from afar, and suddenly, he wishes he hadn’t left the hospital wing after all. He’s still in his pyjamas and he’s blind for crying out loud. Do the other students know about that?

_They will soon, when they see you._

Surely enough, he hears thundering footsteps and laughter.

“Be careful with that,” he hears a girl hiss.

“What, you think I’m going to drop it?” a boy answers.

There seems to be a whole group of people, judging from their footsteps. Harry wishes he had his Invisibility Cloak with him.

“Hey, that’s mine,” another boy shouts. “Give it back!”

“Ha ha, you’re going to have to catch me!”

“No, Logan, stop it!”

It sounds like they’re very near.

“Ow!”

“Give it back!”

“Bugger off!”

“Ow! For fuck’s sake! You know what? Here, try and catch it!”

“No!”

Harry’s head whips around when he hears an explosion. He immediately throws himself on the ground. A moment later, a tangy smell penetrates his nostrils and he immediately covers his face with his sleeve. It’s pointless. He starts coughing violently, while trying not to inhale through his nose.

“What’s going on here?” McGonagall’s stern voice booms through the corridor. “Whose Dung Bomb was that?”

Even though Harry’s eyes are closed, they start to burn. He reminds himself to breathe through his mouth, but he can almost taste the foul smell.

“Ventus,” he hears McGonagall say and feels a sudden gust of air.

“You all know very well these are banned at Hogwarts. Detention! For all of you,” McGonagall barks.

Harry startles when someone suddenly clutches his shoulders.

“Professor?” he asks, coughing again. The only response is a sharp poke on his upper arm. His pulse quickens.

“Malfoy?” he whispers. Two pokes. “Ouch! You don’t have to be so rough.”

Malfoy shoves him and Harry almost falls backwards.

“Ugh! Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you!”

Malfoy doesn’t react to that and Harry grumpily starts massaging the spot where the other boy’s finger probably left a mark.

“What are you two doing out here?” McGonagall snaps.

Oh no.

“Err… Professor—”

“Dear Merlin, Potter. You must have been right next to where this thing exploded. Mr Malfoy, take him back to the hospital wing, will you? Although, might I recommend a shower first?” The clicking of her heels echoes off the wall as she takes off, the group of students in tow.

“Is that Harry Potter?”

“I saw the scar.”

“What’s wrong with him? Why is he just sitting there with his eyes closed?”

“I can’t believe you threw a Dung Bomb at Harry Potter!”

“Shut up, Mildred!”

“I think it’s best you all stay quiet,” McGonagall advises as their footsteps quickly fade.

Harry coughs again and clumsily rubs his eyes. He wants to complain when Malfoy seizes his arm and gruffly pulls him up, but he starts walking so fast, it leaves him breathless. Malfoy pulls him into a room and slams the door shut behind them. Harry doesn’t dare utter another word. Malfoy seems livid. He hears something squeak and then… splashing.

“A— Are— Are we in the showers?”

Malfoy confirms by stabbing Harry’s shoulder twice.

“Ugh, will you stop that?” Harry grumbles. “You’re an arse!”

Malfoy shoves him again, causing Harry to stumble.

“Seriously?” Harry yells and starts flailing around. He hits Malfoy twice, although he doesn’t know where. He grunts when the Slytherin tackles him and shoves him against a wall, right under the running water.

“What is your bloody problem?” Harry splutters and tries to catch his breath. He struggles against the arms, pinning him to the wall. “Where the fuck were you? I woke up and you were gone!” He tries to kick Malfoy, but the git dodges his foot. “This is what I get for being worried about you?” he fumes. “You’re an arse, Malfoy!”

Harry yelps when Malfoy pulls him forward. He tries to shove the other boy's hands away, struggling and grunting. He pushes against Malfoy’s shoulders, but his grip is as hard as iron. As he tears at Harry’s pyjama, there’s a clattering sound on the floor. Before Harry can think about what that sound was, Malfoy shoves him away. He feels his breath getting knocked out of him when his back crashes into the wall. He groans, hunching, before his legs give way, and he collapses onto the floor.

He scrambles to his hands and knees, panting furiously. The steam makes it hard to breathe. He tries to focus, his head still spinning from the impact and the heat around him. He cringes when something touches his back.

He’s wary, but he doesn’t fight back, when two hands curl around his hips and pull him up. Harry staggers against the body behind him, the hot water trickling down on them, soaking their clothes. That’s when Harry realises his front is exposed, his pyjama hanging open. It must have ripped during their fight. His stomach flips when he suddenly feels Malfoy’s hands move over his bare skin, slowly and hesitantly, to encircle him and pull him closer. At the same time, Malfoy drops his head and Harry feels his nose on his neck, his erratic and quick breathing.

“What, now you’re feeling sorry?” Harry snorts, trying to cover his sudden nervousness. Malfoy is touching his skin, his bare skin. His hands are on his stomach and his chest, and it does very weird and very alarming things to Harry. The feeling intensifies when Malfoy presses his face against his neck.

The anger Harry felt up until a second ago quickly subsides. There’s something about the way Malfoy is holding him, with a sense of desperation. It’s different from the way he clung to him the night before and it sparks something in Harry’s chest.

Malfoy presses his body more firmly against his back, making Harry very aware of every part of him that’s in contact with the other boy. Thanks to their clothes being soaked, it almost feels like there’s barely anything between them. Harry suppresses the embarrassing gurgling sound at the back of his throat when the little voice inside his head pipes up.

_Imagine what it would be like if there wasn’t anything between you._

Harry can’t believe he’s having these thoughts. Again. He kept trying to push them to the back of his mind the night before, but, apparently, it’s pointless to ignore them. It’s like his body is acting on its own, intent on getting what it craves. Harry still can’t really wrap his head around the idea that Malfoy is the object of his desire. Does he really want to go there? With him?

_Yes, you do._

He can’t help but think it would be really presumptuous to act on it, though. As it would have been last night. Whatever is going on with Malfoy, this is clearly not the right moment for Harry to finally admit he’s apparently attracted to the Slytherin.

_Remember how it felt when you stroked his hair, though? It’s so soft!_

Oh god, shut up, Harry scolds himself.

_But just imagine what it would be like, to grab that hair, pull his head back, and suck on his neck._

Oh, for fuck’s sake!

He starts squirming as his pants get undeniably tighter. He feels Malfoy’s warm breath caressing his neck and something in him snaps.

He lifts his hand, and puts it on Malfoy’s. He doesn’t let go as he slowly turns around to face the other boy. They stand there, wordlessly, as the water cascades around them. Harry tries to slow his breathing, to make it less obvious how jittery he feels. Malfoy’s hand twitches in his and it’s oddly reassuring. He’s becoming more aware of little gestures like that. Still, he wishes he could see the other boy’s face. Maybe that would stop him from presumably making the biggest mistake of his life.

“I think— Err— I’m— I’m going to— Um, I mean, since we’re here, I’ll just, um, wash the rest of that Dung Bomb off.”

He lets go of Malfoy’s hand and slowly shrugs out of his pyjama. It lands on the floor with a splash. Harry shivers, even though he doesn’t feel cold. He can feel Malfoy’s breath on his face, sending a tingling down his spine that reaches all the way down to the tip of his toes. That’s when he remembers he’s still wearing slippers. He corrects that a moment later, kicking them off. He pauses as his thumbs slip beneath the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. The air seems to be crackling around them. It’s almost too much.

Harry hesitates, mentally cursing, as his courage seems to be washed down the drain. His face might be stoic, although he’s pretty sure it’s not, but… there are parts of him that will give him away; they will make it very clear he isn’t just taking off his clothes to take a shower. Merlin, maybe Malfoy will even think Harry is turned on by their fight. Either way, Harry realises, as he clutches his drenched bottoms, his… excitement is probably pretty obvious already.

What excites him even more, is the fact that Malfoy hasn’t move away yet. He’s still standing right in front of him, probably watching every move. Harry feels a prickling between his shoulder blades at the thought. Something hot and tingly pools in the pit of his stomach.

He starts pushing down his pyjama bottoms, along with his pants, and his dignity, moving deliberately slow. He imagines Malfoy’s eyes on him, gaping at him. It sends a thrilling jolt through him. It feels almost liberating when the last of his clothes is finally on the floor, and he can kick them aside. And then he waits.

Nobody has ever seen him naked before. He always makes sure to be quick in the showers after Quidditch practice, and some of his team mates might have caught a glimpse every now and then, but that’s different. He never presented himself to them, like he’s doing now, with Malfoy. He often wondered how someone would react to his body. Years and years of playing Quidditch have toned him, yes, but he’s still a little too skinny, still not that tall. He definitely doesn’t feel as confident about his body as he might seem. Speaking of confident…

As much as Harry is worrying about being scrutinised, other parts of him don’t seem to share that particular sentiment. He can feel himself getting harder, every time those grey eyes pop into his mind. His body moves of its own accord, stepping closer to the other boy.

“Um— Can I— Would you— I mean—” He feels incredibly foolish. But he has no idea what’s going on with Malfoy, if he’s in shock, if he’s sneering, or… gaping.

_Get ready to be punched in the face._

“Do you… maybe… want to take your clothes off, too?” Harry doesn’t even get a chance to feel embarrassed about how stupidly he phrased that question; the most traitorous part of his body twitches at the prospect Malfoy might agree.

It feels like he’s waiting for hours, the sound of the running water whooshing in his ears. Then, he hears something else. Malfoy is moving. But what is he doing? Is he leaving? Is he… taking off his clothes? Harry hates the fact that he just has to stand there and wait, completely vulnerable and very, very naked.

His heart nearly jumps out of his chest when he, without any warning, feels another body being pressed against his. A naked body. His scalp starts to prickle and suddenly, it feels like his insides are on fire. He can feel Malfoy, all of him. And inexplicably, he seems to be just as hard as Harry.

His hands instinctively latch onto Malfoy’s hips, and he can’t help but shiver when he feels the other boy’s hands on the small of his back.

_Merlin, if he moves them just an inch lower, he’ll be touching my arse!_

His pulse quickens rapidly. He really wants Malfoy to touch him.

Unsure of what to do next, he slightly leans forward, so his forehead rests against Malfoy’s. This might be too intimate a gesture, but Harry’s brain seems to be too foggy to register. He relishes the feeling of Malfoy’s soft skin against his, the warm drizzling of the water somehow intensifying it. The urge to let his hands roam becomes more powerful with every second, until Harry can’t keep it to himself anymore.

“I don’t know how to say this,” he murmurs, his voice sounding raspy, “but… can I touch you? I promise, I’ll be careful about… you know.”

The two taps Harry feels on his back a few moments later send a sensation down to his crotch that leaves him breathless. He feels himself getting harder, if that’s even possible, and he doesn’t waste another second, now that he has Malfoy’s permission. While he makes a mental note to stay clear of the Slytherin’s left arm and his chest, his hands begin to move.

Discovering someone else’s body, without being able to see, is an experience Harry isn't prepared for. Aside from the fact that he hasn’t touched anyone like this before, this feels… overwhelming. He can only see with his hands. Still, he wishes he could at least get a glimpse of Malfoy’s eyes. Do they widen as Harry’s fingers wander up his spine? Does he like the way Harry’s fingers are brushing against his skin?

Harry can’t deny he’s enjoying it. Very much. But it hasn’t escaped his notice that Malfoy is still clutching the small of his back and hasn’t moved his hands an inch.

 _Is he nervous? Is he waiting for me to screw up?_ _Why isn’t he touching me?_

He seems to be okay with what Harry is doing, one hand on his stomach, while the other is buried in his hair. Slowly, he lets go of the other boy’s hair and moves his hand lower. He feels a pang in his heart when he reaches his shoulder. The bones are much more prominent than they should be. He swallows as his fingers continue their way downwards, until they finally find Malfoy’s hand and Harry guides it up to his own face and presses it against his cheek.

“You can touch me too, if you want.” He swallows again as he slowly lets their fingers trail down his throat. Malfoy’s hand twitches in his and Harry pauses.

“Is this okay?” he asks. It feels hesitant when Malfoy taps his skin twice, so Harry makes sure to take his time when he continues. Their hands reach his chest and he presses Malfoy’s hand more firmly against his skin. He knows Malfoy can feel his heartbeat. It’s thundering erratically. He lets go of his hand and reaches forward to curl his own around his neck.

“I— I like it when you touch me,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.

For a moment, Malfoy stays completely still, while Harry caresses his stomach. He knows he’s about to enter the forbidden zone of the scars, but something else has caught his attention. He can feel all the ribs through Malfoy’s skin. His heart clenches. He tentatively moves his fingers upwards, until he feels a bump. More heat rushes to his groin when he realises he’s touching Malfoy’s nipple. He slowly starts circling it, paying close attention to any reaction. He feels their stomachs pressing together, as if Malfoy is arching his back. His heart rate picks up at the thought that Malfoy might be feeling the same desire as him. He gets lost in the sensation of slick skin, rubbing against his. It feels so good.

Intent on exploring more of the other boy’s body, Harry starts to move his hand across his chest to his other nipple. Before he reaches it, however, Malfoy grabs his wrist.

“Oh. Do you not like that?” More heat rushes to Harry’s cheeks, but not in arousal. What if Malfoy wants to stop? What if he just realised he doesn’t like Harry touching him, after all? If he could just see his face. His suspicion seems to be confirmed when he feels a tap against his wrist. Just one.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I— I’ll stop then.” He prepares himself for the other boy to shove him away. It couldn’t make him feel worse than he already does. Malfoy doesn’t want this. But… Harry had felt it. He had been hard as well. He still is. Harry can’t resist moving his hips and Malfoy inhales sharply.

_Yep, definitely still hard._

“Oh god, I’m sorry. I didn’t—” Harry stops when Malfoy takes his other hand as well, and guides both of them to Harry’s back.

“Do— Do you want me to keep my hands here?” he asks. Two taps. Yes.

“Okay,” he murmurs, feeling slightly disappointed, but also confused. His breath catches in his throat, when Malfoy places his hands on either side of Harry’s face.

_What is he doing? I thought he wanted to stop. Fuck, is he going to kiss me? Merlin, please! Please, kiss me!_

His licks his lips, his heart racing in anticipation, but Malfoy doesn’t lean in. His hands glide into Harry’s hair instead. Harry hums as Malfoy’s fingertips massage his scalp and slide down to the back of his neck. Malfoy leaves one hand there, playing with Harry’s hair, while he traces the line of his jaw with the other. Harry is so tempted to lean in. He knows Malfoy’s face is just inches away. He wants to feel his lips, but he doesn’t dare to move. He doesn’t want to scare Malfoy away. He seems unsure as his fingers travel down Harry’s chest. What can Harry do to reassure him? What—

Harry almost buckles as Malfoy starts rolling his nipple between his fingers. A low moan escapes from the back of his throat. It seems to encourage Malfoy to keep going, so Harry doesn’t hold back. He squirms and moans at every thrilling touch of Malfoy’s hands. Meanwhile, his fingers dig into his own flesh; he has grabbed his wrist, to keep himself from throwing his arms around Malfoy and devouring him.

When Malfoy caresses and then squeezes his bum, however, he can’t take it anymore. He has to do something. He’s achingly hard. Acting on impulse, he brings his hand forward and curls it around his own length. He groans as he slowly starts to pump. It’s fucking embarrassing, but so, so good. He’s so close.

In the back of his mind, he registers that Malfoy has stopped moving his hands on his bum, mid-squeeze.

“Don’t— Don’t stop,” Harry groans. He arches his back when he feels Malfoy slowly massaging his cheeks. He’s so close. His hand stills and his lips part when he suddenly feels Malfoy’s fingers on the tip of his length.

_Fuck! Oh god!_

Malfoy is rubbing his thumb over the slit in circular motions, while Harry concentrates hard on staying vertical. He removes his hand, every nerve of his body fixated on the motion of Malfoy’s fingers. He moves them lower, taking Harry fully into his hand and starts to stroke him.

 _I’m not going to last long_ , Harry thinks, and his jaw clenches. His hips snap forward, pushing against Malfoy and for a second, Harry thinks they’re going to fall over. But then, he feels Malfoy colliding with something and Harry quickly stretches out his hands.

_Thank Merlin!_

He places his hands on the wall, Malfoy between his arms, as he keeps panting and moaning shamelessly, and Malfoy’s strokes become more confident.

“I’m— I’m close,” Harry groans and drops his forehead to Malfoy’s. He shudders as he feels the gush of Malfoy’s heavy breathing against his mouth. He imagines it’s his lips, instead of his breath, pressing firmly against his. He imagines Malfoy letting out a soft moan as Harry’s lips brush against his…  

_Fuck!_

His knees lock and every muscle in his body contracts, as he feels himself spill between them.

“Oh, fuck!”

His heartbeat thunders in his ears, while Malfoy continues to stroke him. Harry lets out one last moan, and lets his hands slide down to let them rest on Malfoy’s shoulders.

_This is so much better than doing it myself. Sweet Merlin!_

“Wow. That was— Um…” He doesn’t even try to hide the stupid grin that’s rapidly stretching on his lips. Unable to find any words, he gently rubs his thumbs on Malfoy’s neck, feeling his pulse hammering against it.

_Oh! Of course! Malfoy’s still…_

He drops one hand to Malfoy’s hip, trying to fight the dizziness that threatens to overpower him.

“Do you want me to— I mean… I could take care of that for you… if you want to.”

If only Malfoy knew how eager Harry actually is to reciprocate. He feels him tense up against him.

_Please, please say yes._

When he taps Harry’s bum twice, a new wave of arousal seizes him. His hand shoots down as quickly as if he was trying to catch the Snitch. He feels the gush of Malfoy’s exhale and he slowly starts to stroke him.

It does feel a bit strange, having another boy’s erection in his hand. He only ever touched his own and since he knows what he likes, it’s a sure-fire success every time. But, what does Malfoy like? How does he usually do this?

 _Maybe it’s not that important_ , Harry thinks, remembering how it felt when Malfoy touched him. Just the touch of another person’s hand was so thrilling. Plus, the fact that it was Malfoy…

Feeling more confident, he tightens his grip around Malfoy’s cock. He takes it as a good sign when Malfoy squeezes his bum and throws his other arm around his shoulders. As Harry continues moving his hand up and down, wondering if he’s doing it right, an idea flashes through his mind.

It’s something Seamus hadn’t shut up about for weeks, making Neville blush so hard, Harry thought he was going to implode. To be fair, Seamus described it in such graphic detail, Harry shifted uncomfortably in his bed, unable to make eye contact with any of the other Gryffindors. Aside from wondering who Seamus had shared this ‘fucking brilliant’ experience with, it had piqued Harry’s interest. And, even though he imagined himself being on the receiving end of this, he feels a new wave of desire washing over him at the thought of doing it to Malfoy.

“Can I try something?” he whispers. He’s not sure, but he thinks he hears Malfoy swallow, before he draws a line on Harry’s shoulder.

_He’s not sure._

“I— I want to—” Harry doesn’t know why he’s so nervous all of a sudden. Malfoy just wanked him off, Harry is holding his cock. Why is he suddenly feeling shy? He licks his lips, astounded at himself for what he’s about to say. “I— I want to take you in my mouth.”

Malfoy’s fingers dig so deep into his shoulders, it almost hurts. His finger is shaking as he taps. Once. No.

_Oh._

Harry can’t help but feel crestfallen. He knows it’s unfair. If Malfoy doesn’t want—

Another tap. Harry feels something twist in his stomach that quickly spreads to his loins. Before Malfoy can change his mind, Harry drops to his knees, intent on replacing his hand with his mouth. But... now that he’s kneeling in front of Malfoy, his face inches away from his cock, he suddenly doesn’t feel so bold anymore.

He has no idea what to do. His mind is completely blank, everything Seamus told them suddenly forgotten.

_Start with something simple._

He quietly clears his throat before he opens his mouth, angles his head and slowly licks his way up. He tries not to snort as water fills his nostrils.

_Ugh, this was a bad idea! I’m making a total fool out of myself!_

But Harry wouldn’t be Harry if he just gave up like that. He shifts, grabbing the other boy’s thigh with his free hand and lets his tongue dart out again to slowly lick the head. Malfoy is clearly trying to move as little as possible, but Harry feels every subtle movement and it sends pleasant thrills through him. He starts swirling his tongue over the slit, slowly sinking his head lower and lower.

When he finally takes him into his mouth, he hears Malfoy choke. It feels like a little victory. Something trickles onto his tongue and Harry marvels at the texture and the taste. It’s creamy and a little bitter. It’s unlike anything he has ever tasted.

_This isn’t going so bad, is it?_

Except, his lips are starting to hurt a little and he feels his gag reflex kicking in. When he had him in his hand, he noticed that Malfoy isn’t as thick as him, but now that he has him in his mouth, it’s pretty clear he’s bigger than Harry.

 _Bastard_ , Harry thinks, a sly smile creeping on his face. Malfoy jerks and Harry quickly releases him.

“Fuck! Teeth. Didn’t think of that. Sorry!” Harry starts panicking, feeling like a complete idiot.

_Merlin, what made you think you could do this? Just because you heard Seamus talk about it? Clearly, he exaggerated._

Taking a deep breath, he tucks his teeth under his lips and tries again. Malfoy hisses as Harry starts bobbing his head. He feels a hand on his cheek and starts humming in approval at the tender touch. Malfoy’s hips buck, causing Harry to choke. He fights through it, too determined to stop. He slows down, licks the tip, savouring the now more familiar taste, before diving back in. Malfoy’s hand twitches against his cheek and he grabs Harry’s hair. He gently pulls his head back and Harry feels the muscles in the his thigh working furiously against his palm.

_He’s going to come. He’s giving me the chance to pull back._

But Harry doesn’t. He keeps bobbing his head, trying to ignore the burning in his cheeks. With a silent ‘pop’ Malfoy’s cock suddenly disappears from Harry’s mouth. The hand in his hair tightens and then he feels something warm and sticky oozing down his chest. Perplexed, Harry brings his fingers up and touches it.

“Sorry,” he mumbles sheepishly. “That must have been the worst blow job in history. But, to be fair, it was my first one, so I’m—” Malfoy silences him with two fingers, pressed against his lips. Before Harry can speak again, he gently pulls him up and into a hug, pressing his face against Harry’s neck. Stunned, Harry just stands there, unable to move.

Part of him is actually glad Malfoy pulled back at the last second. He doesn’t know if he would have been able to handle it. But he wanted to try.

_Maybe next time._

He goes rigid at the stupidity of his own thoughts. Next time? Is there even going to be a next time? Honestly, isn’t it crazy enough they just had a first time? What the hell was this anyway? What does it mean? Does it mean that Malfoy is attracted to him as well? Or was this just a convenient one-off? It sure as hell wasn’t for Harry. He might be impulsive, but he’s not the kind of guy who just goes around and… does this kind of thing with people. Is Malfoy? Harry wants to think he isn’t, actually feeling quite sure about that, but he realises that’s a part of Malfoy’s life he has absolutely no clue about. There’s probably a lot Harry doesn’t know about him, no matter how much he thinks he knows him.

Panic bubbles up inside him, as the magnitude of what they just did fully hits him. It’s not just the things they did to each other that makes him feel like he’s losing his balance, it’s the knowledge that there’s no going back now. He can’t just take it back. He’s attracted to Draco Malfoy. And not just physically. That’s even more horrifying.

Against his better judgement, he puts his arms around Malfoy and pulls him closer. He doesn’t know why, but, somehow, this feels even more intimate than what they just did. And, inexplicably, that doesn’t bring him joy, it makes his heart grow heavy.

_Why Malfoy? Why does it have to be Draco Malfoy?_

 

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

 

When Draco turns on the shower, he’s still panting with rage.

_Fuck Potter! Who does he think he is? Stumbling around the castle like a toddler… looking for me._

He slaps his palm against the wall. Potter has no right to act like this. Potter has no right to act like Draco actually means something to him.

_That prick! He just can’t help himself, can he?_

Getting angry at Potter and attacking him is a complete automatism at this point. He’s glad Potter is fighting back. He feels like he’s drowning in his own fury. This is the only way he knows how to deal with his feelings. But then, Potter suddenly hits the ground and it’s like Draco is slowly waking up from a dream. Seeing Potter lying there, panting, soaking wet, doesn’t make him feel better. It doesn’t give him the satisfaction it usually did. Not after having his arms around him. Now, it’s impossible to pretend his feelings aren’t real.

_Damn you, Potter! Why did you have to go and ruin everything?_

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s pulling him into a tight embrace, burying his face into his neck, wishing he would never have to let go.

_Fuck you, Potter! Why couldn’t you let me keep pretending?_

Potter moves and Draco fights the urge to cling on to him, to keep him in place. He doesn’t want this moment to end, afraid of facing reality again. When Potter slowly starts undressing, Draco is suddenly very certain he’s actually dreaming. Of course he is. That makes so much more sense. He watches Potter push down his bottoms, with his mouth hanging open.

_Potter. Naked. Naked. Here. Naked. Potter. Wet. Very wet. And very naked. Is that— Oh. It is. Fuck!_

When Potter asks if he wants to take off his clothes as well, Draco only hesitates for a second. Something in the back of his mind screams that this is a terrible idea. For one, Potter could accidentally touch the Dark Mark again, and this time, it could have horrible consequences. But Draco can’t stop himself. He’s in too deep. He doesn’t want this dream to end. So, for just one moment, he surrenders himself and gives in to his heart’s deepest desire.


	10. Chapter 10

The walk back to the hospital wing is uncomfortable and awkward. Not only because Harry is freezing, thanks to his wet and ripped clothes, but mainly because he doesn’t know what to say or how to feel.

Madam Pomfrey gives them the scolding of their lifetime as she shoves something at them. A towel and… another set of pyjamas, Harry realises.

“This isn’t the Three Broomsticks! You can’t just walk in and out of here as you please! You’re both grounded!”

“Grounded?” Harry echoes, arching an eyebrow.

“Don’t start with me, Mr Potter,” she barks, and Harry shuts his mouth. “Come here.” She grabs his arm and pulls him along with her. “Go and change before you catch another fever!”

Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. He fumbles around for the bathroom door and hurries inside. He starts towelling his hair dry and gets rid of his wet clothes. His teeth chatter as he pulls on the pyjamas Madam Pomfrey gave him and he tries to find his way back to his bed as quickly as he can. He jumps under the covers, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

_Fuck, it’s so cold!_

He can’t stop shivering. He grits his teeth, trying to hold still.

It’s hard to imagine now that, merely half an hour ago, he was feeling so hot, he thought he might explode. Not even the memory of having Malfoy’s hands on him makes him feel any warmer. It only makes him cringe. What the fuck is he supposed to do now? Just… nothing? Is he supposed to pretend that had just been a lapse of judgement?

_You know what, maybe it’s not the worst thing to do nothing for once. Let Malfoy make the next move._

But what if he doesn’t? What if he pretends it never happened? That seems exactly like something Malfoy would do. But no, Harry won’t let him get away with that.

Ready to march over to the other boy’s bed and give him a piece of his mind, Harry starts getting up but pauses when he hears the familiar rustling of his curtains. Somebody is closing them. He waits, his heartbeat quickening. He feels his blanket being lifted and then… nothing. It’s kind of odd, Harry thinks, how he immediately associates silence and hesitation with Malfoy now. But even without being able to see him, Harry knows it’s him. The question is, what is he doing?

Not being completely sure what’s happening but not wanting to blow a potential chance, in case he has been utterly wrong about him, Harry quickly crawls backwards on the bed, making space. Malfoy only hesitates for another second before he slips under the covers, next to Harry. As if that isn’t surprising enough, Malfoy moves closer, takes Harry’s hands in both of his and puts them between their faces. Harry lies there, stunned, as the gush of Malfoy’s warm breath pleasantly caresses his fingers. He has no idea what’s going on or what came over Malfoy, but this is even better than what Harry planned to do. And, as confusing as this turn of events might be, he decides not to push it right now and forces himself to relax. He tentatively moves his fingers, his fingertips brushing against Malfoy’s skin. He almost smiles when the other boy does the same.

He has no idea how much time passes while they stay in this exact position. He’s ready to doze off when he hears someone scurrying around. Probably Madam Pomfrey. Good thing Malfoy closed the curtains. But…

“Malfoy,” he whispers. He feels his hand being squeezed in response. “What if Madam Pomfrey sees your bed is empty? She’ll go ballistic!”

Harry feels a gush of air on his face, as though Malfoy just sighed, and then feels one tap on his hand.

“She won’t?” he says, furrowing his brows. But she will. She just told them they couldn’t leave this room. And while Malfoy technically didn’t, she’ll still assume he did when she sees he’s not there. Unless… she doesn’t see.

“Did you draw the curtains of your bed as well?” Harry asks, a grin forming on his face. Malfoy taps his hand twice and Harry’s grin widens.

_Such a Slytherin move._

He’s about to comment on that when he hears another pair of footsteps, and a familiar voice.

“If you hadn’t shouted, Madam Pince wouldn’t have kicked us out! I can’t believe I got kicked out of the library,” Hermione grumbles.

“Thanks for taking me out, Hermione,” Ron murmurs. He sounds sleepy. “And sorry for getting us kicked out. I just can’t get used to not hearing anything. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I almost miss you bossing me around.”

“Oh. It’s okay,” Hermione mutters, her voice sounding much softer. “Just… lie down for a bit.”

Harry holds his breath, and it feels like Malfoy is too, as he listens and prays Hermione will just go away without checking on him. But it sounds like she’s approaching his bed.

“Harry?”

Trying not be too noisy, Harry quickly grabs the blanket and pulls it over their heads. He feels the Slytherin bending his knees and moving closer to him. A moment later, he hears the curtains being drawn aside.

_Please, Hermione, just go away. Please!_

He stays stock-still as she closes the curtain again and the clicking of her heels fill his ears.

“Bye, Ron. I’ll be back after dinner.”

When he hears the door close behind her, Harry finally relaxes.

“Merlin, that was close,” he murmurs. He frowns when he realises Malfoy is still tense and hasn’t moved an inch.

“Is something wrong?” he asks. Malfoy moves his head and something bumps against Harry’s nose. Oh. His face is so much closer than Harry thought. Which is kind of stupid, since most of their other body parts are touching. A pleasant tingle runs down Harry’s spine as he wonders if Malfoy would let him touch him again.

He swallows when he feels the other boy squirm.

“What is it?” he asks. He feels Malfoy’s hand slowly sliding down his arm, sending Harry’s heart into a frenzy. He moves on to his hips, his thigh, before his hands changes course and slowly wanders upwards again. Malfoy hesitates, right before he reaches the part Harry wants him to touch the most. He wants to groan in frustration, take his hand and push it down his pants. He bites the inside of his cheek until it hurts, trying to distract himself from the tightness he suddenly feels between his legs.

Malfoy starts moving his thumb, stroking the inside of Harry’s thigh, making him gasp. He keeps doing it for several minutes, while Harry mentally begs for more. When the thumb accidentally brushes against his balls, Harry inadvertently arches his back.

“Yes,” he hisses and clutches Malfoy’s… arse, apparently. “Oh Merlin, please, _please_ touch me,” he gasps, not caring about how needy he sounds. His entire body trembles in anticipation, waiting for the other boy to move his hand. He bites his lip as Malfoy finally palms his already half-hard cock through his pyjamas. He had no idea he could get aroused again so quickly. Heat floods through him as Malfoy slowly starts to rub his erection and he can’t help but let out a little moan. Only slightly concerned about Ron being in the next bed, Harry squeezes Malfoy’s hip and pulls their bodies closer together. Malfoy inhales sharply and Harry wants to protest as the hand on his crotch suddenly disappears. The words die in the back of his throat, however, when Malfoy starts moving his hips and grabs Harry’s bum. Harry quickly mimics his movements, getting lost in the feeling of Malfoy’s hardness rubbing against his. It would probably feel even better without all the clothes between them, but Harry already feels the familiar tingle in his belly, indicating he’s close to the finish line.

He buries his face in the crook of Malfoy’s neck as the Slytherin’s movements become more frantic and he pants down Harry’s neck. Harry lets his fingers wander upwards, until they slip beneath Malfoy’s pyjamas and clutches at his back. Malfoy presses his cheek against his and Harry shivers as the hot breath tickles his ear. He wishes he could hear Malfoy moan, hear his voice as he loses control. Instead, Harry is the one moaning as Malfoy pushes his cock against Harry’s with frantic urgency.

“Yes, yes,” he groans, his fingers digging into the Slytherin’s skin, desperate for more friction. Harry barely registers Malfoy moving his head, but when he suddenly feels the other boy’s lips lightly brushing his collarbone, he almost screams.

“Ma— Mal— Merlin!”

His toes curl and his abdominal muscles clench as he drowns in the waves of pleasure crashing down on him. Malfoy stills against him but Harry feels his hips jerking, almost in unison with his own, as the wetness spreads between them.

It takes several minutes until Harry is breathing normally again, his mind reeling. They just did it again. Is that a good thing or not? Also, he almost said Malfoy’s name. _That_ is definitely not a good thing. This is getting out of control.

Before he can wonder what will happen next, Malfoy moves and the warmth of his body suddenly disappears. Confused, Harry fumbles around the bed, but all his hands are grasping is his sheets. Malfoy is gone. Harry waits for a while, thinking he might come back, but he doesn’t.

Harry stays awake for a long time, feeling more awful than he thought he would after everything that happened today. He pushes his face into the pillow, cursing Malfoy for being such an enormous, confusing git.

 

* * *

 

As much as Harry would like to think he’s impervious to Malfoy’s charms, especially after what the prat did, he’s proven wrong when Malfoy climbs into his bed the next night, after Madam Pomfrey extinguishes the lights. In a matter of seconds Harry’s entire body is entangled with his, his breathing already heavy as the Slytherin tentatively taps his hip twice. Harry frowns in confusion, not knowing what’s going on, when Malfoy taps his hip again.

“Oh,” Harry says. Unsure of what to do, he just mumbles, “Um, okay.”

He almost sighs in relief when Malfoy drops his hand to his crotch and starts to rub him. All the sorrow and confusion he has felt, since Malfoy left his bed, are completely forgotten as Harry loses himself in the sensation of his touch. Tentatively, he reaches out until he finds the other boy’s bulge, teasing the tip through his pyjama bottoms. Malfoy gasps and Harry feels heat rushing through him, caused by that little sound.

Malfoy’s hand suddenly stills and moves to Harry’s waistband, slowly stroking the strip of exposed skin. Harry holds his breath, wondering if Malfoy is going to pull down the pesky fabric. He doesn’t. Or at least, he’s hesitating. Harry swallows.

“Do you want to— Err…”

Why does he always feel so nervous? They’ve already done… stuff.

“We can— You know, if you— I’d like that.”

_Great. If you were trying to show how much of an oaf you are, you clearly exceeded expectations._

“Okay, look,” he says, sounding a little exasperated. He feels Malfoy withdraw his hand, but he quickly grabs it. “Just— You know, you can… do whatever you want.”

There. He couldn’t have made himself clearer now. Oh, well, maybe it was a bit of an unfortunate choice of words. It might have sounded like a dismissal. Malfoy seems to have taken it that way, Harry thinks, as he feels how tense he suddenly is, his body rigid and his hand stock-still. Harry desperately wishes he could see inside the other boy’s mind. He has no idea what’s going on. But, he reasons with himself, he’d be hesitant, too, if he wasn’t sure if Malfoy really wanted this. And, even though it should be pretty obvious how much Harry is enjoying himself, he hasn’t actually said it out loud, yet. He doesn’t really want to, but if the alternative is them not doing this again… Well…

Harry takes a deep breath, deciding to show the other boy how much he wants this. He places Malfoy’s hand on his chest, right over his heart.

“Do you feel that? How fast it’s beating?” he asks, his voice slightly quivering.

Malfoy slowly taps his fingers on Harry’s chest.

“You’re doing that,” he murmurs. “You’re… doing that.”

While pressing Malfoy’s hand more firmly against his chest, Harry leans forward. Malfoy’s nose slides against his and he hears him gasp. Harry takes in his smell, already familiar and yet incredibly intoxicating. The smell reminds him of something, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. It’s heady, sensual and full of promise. He never thought someone’s smell could make his head spin like that. He gulps, the warmth in his cheeks quickly spreading down his neck. He waits for Malfoy to make the next move, feeling even more exposed than when he stood completely naked in front of him.

He inhales sharply as he feels something cold on his waistband again. His heart jumps violently as he realises it’s Malfoy’s other hand, his left one still firmly pressed against Harry’s chest. Harry lifts his hip as Malfoy starts pushing down his pants, quickly reciprocating by yanking on the Slytherin’s pajamas. When Harry finally feels Malfoy’s cock against his, he lets his head fall back with a gasp.

_Has anything ever felt as fantastic as this?_

His entire body hums with pleasure. He lifts his leg and wraps it around the other boy’s waist, pushing their hips together. Malfoy arches his back and Harry feels how much he wants him. He forces himself to take his time every now and then, putting emphasis on gentle touches and slowing down as they grind their hips together. Malfoy seems happy to comply, adapting to the rhythm Harry is setting.

Malfoy comes first this time, shuddering as Harry slowly strokes his hair. Harry follows a few moments later with a deep moan. Before he can decide if it would be too much to wrap his arms around Malfoy and bury his face in his hair, he feels him pulling away. For a moment, Harry thinks he’s just catching his breath, but then, he feels the mattress shift beneath him and he knows Malfoy is gone. Again. Disappointment sweeps over him, squeezing his heart painfully. But that’s not even the worst part.

The worst part is, Harry lets it happen night after night. During the day, he squirms impatiently in his bed, barely listening to anything Ginny tells him about her O.W.L.s. As soon as night falls, he feels his excitement pick up and he sighs in relief when Malfoy slips into his bed to drive him insane, only to feel a pang of yearning and regret every time he takes off again.

It’s not like Harry is asking for much. He knows it’s not a good idea for Malfoy to spend the night in his bed. All hell would break loose in the morning as soon as someone would discover them, cuddled up together. Still, he can’t help that he’s feeling hurt. It’s been almost a week now and Harry finds himself exhausted and edgy. When he feels the familiar dip in the mattress one night, he turns away. He feels Malfoy’s hand on his shoulder, immediately sparking something in Harry’s chest. But he resists the urge to turn around and grab his hips. He just can’t do this anymore. He knows it will ruin… whatever is going on between them. Confronting Malfoy will very likely put an end to this. For good. But as much as Harry wants him, he doesn’t want him like this.

Malfoy taps his shoulder and Harry flinches.

“No,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

He feels Malfoy’s hand twitch.

“You can’t just come here and—” He breaks off, not sure how to say it without sounding stupid. He rolls onto his back and props himself up on his elbows.

“Are you just using me for pleasure?” he grumbles. “If you just want to— Ugh, maybe you should go and find somebody else. Don’t do it with me. Don’t—” He breaks off, biting his tongue. He said too much already. He doesn’t want Malfoy to know how vulnerable he feels. He probably failed miserably.

“Just leave,” he mutters when Malfoy doesn’t move. “It’s what you do best.”

_Yeah, that doesn’t sound bitter at all._

He startles when Malfoy makes a sudden movement near his arm.

“Did you just punch my pillow?” he asks. He can hear Malfoy’s panting. He’s angry. He’s probably irritated Harry has seen right through him. He can take Malfoy’s anger. It’s what he’s used to. But now, after getting to know this other side of him, going back to how things were before seems like a horrible predicament.

Malfoy shifts beside him and Harry readies himself for a punch or for Malfoy to storm off. Either will hurt. But nothing happens. Malfoy just sits there and Harry wonders if he should just shove him out of his bed and be done with it. But neither of them do anything and Harry starts questioning his resolution. He wants to stay strong and not let Malfoy know how much he’s hurting him, but he already feels the words tumbling out of his mouth.

“I’m not sure if I’m asking for too much,” he murmurs quietly. “I don’t even know what the hell we’re doing here. But…” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t like it when you leave.” He swallows. “ I— I want you.” He swallows again. “Here. I want you here,” he adds hastily, feeling too vulnerable again.

Malfoy doesn’t react to his words for a while, seemingly confirming Harry’s notion that this is a lost cause. He lowers his head, berating himself for being stupid enough to hold on to hope. When something touches his hand, he’s momentarily confused, thinking he must be imagining it. But Malfoy takes his hand in his and it almost feels like on that day when they were sitting under the tree at the Great Lake. Harry’s breath catches in his throat. He stays perfectly still as Malfoy slowly guides their joined hands to Harry’s chest. He frowns, not understanding what Malfoy is trying to tell him with this gesture. He feels his own heartbeat drum against his palm. Then, Malfoy moves their hands again and Harry almost chokes when he feels the soft fabric of Malfoy’s pyjamas before he presses Harry’s hand against his chest, right over his heart. It’s beating frantically. Harry inhales sharply.

_Is he nervous? Or… scared?_

The meaning of his hand on Malfoy’s chest slowly begins to dawn on him when he realises he can feel one of his scars through the fabric.

_He’s letting me touch his scars._

As Malfoy’s heartbeat increases, another memory pops into Harry’s mind. He had done the same thing to Malfoy, in an attempt to make his feelings clear.

_“Do you feel that? How fast it’s beating? You’re doing that.”_

Harry gasps. Is that really what Malfoy is trying to tell him? Does he… feel the same way? Instead of asking, he just lies there, silent as a stone, too overwhelmed to say or do anything. It doesn’t necessarily mean what Harry thinks it means. Just because he wants it to, doesn’t make it true.

He feels Malfoy’s hand slip away and for a moment, he fears he's run off again. He reaches out and his hand bumps against Malfoy’s stomach. Relieved, he puts his hand on his waist, lets his head fall back on the pillow and moves closer. Usually, the other boy would start touching him at this point, but he doesn’t, making Harry frown.

“What is it?” he asks, an uneasy feeling bubbling up inside him. Waiting for Malfoy’s next move is as frustrating as watching the Snitch fluttering out of sight after having nearly caught it. Becoming impatient, he opens his mouth to ask one more time when he suddenly feels Malfoy’s fingers on his mouth. He stiffens, inhaling sharply.

“You want me—” He gulps. “You want me to stop talking?” One tap on his hand. That means no.

“You want me to keep talking?” One tap.

Harry’s frown deepens. “Then what?”

He feels Malfoy softly squeeze his hand. He has no idea what that means. Then, he feels two taps. On his lips.

“You… approve of my lips?” He stiffens again when he feels a warm gush of air on his face. Was that a laugh? A sigh?

Malfoy traces the shape of Harry’s upper lip until he reaches the corner of his mouth. He taps it twice. If Harry’s eyes could open, they would have widened. Because, surely, Malfoy isn’t asking what Harry thinks he’s asking.

_Is he?_

His lower lips starts to tremble as he plucks up all his courage to say the unthinkable.

“Do you— Err—” He feels little beads of sweat forming on his forehead and his neck and he prays Malfoy doesn’t notice. “Is— I mean, err— Would— Um… Are— Are you asking if you can kiss me?”

It feels like minutes tick by until Malfoy finally moves his fingers again. He taps Harry’s lips. Twice.

“Oh.”

His mind is completely blank. All he has to do now is lean in. In theory. But he finds himself unable to move. He can feel the tip of Malfoy’s nose touching his, he feels his breath ghosting over his lips. It makes Harry’s toes curl.

Malfoy’s hand slowly slides down from his mouth and Harry finally realises he hasn’t said anything else.

“Yes,” he whispers and feels Malfoy’s hand still on his neck. “I want you to kiss me,” he adds. Just to make sure. But now Malfoy is the one who isn’t moving, who doesn’t give any sign he has heard what Harry has just told him.

“Please, kiss me?” Harry says, his heart literally in his mouth.

And then he feels it, Malfoy’s lips softly brushing his. He’s teasing Harry, giving him a little taste, but not quite kissing him. It’s frustrating. It’s exhilarating. He inhales sharply and a low moan rumbles through his chest. Malfoy pulls away and Harry wants to grab him and crush their lips together. But he doesn’t. He waits, inwardly screaming, wondering if that’s all Malfoy is going to do.

_Does that even count as a kiss?_

Malfoy’s fingers are still on his neck, Harry realises, as they slowly stroke his skin, and then, Malfoy finally presses his lips on Harry’s.

_They’re so soft. His lips are so soft. How can they be so soft?_

Malfoy slowly tilts his head and Harry feels his fingertips on his jaw, making his stomach flip. Harry opens his mouth and closes it around Malfoy’s bottom lip. When Malfoy lets his fingers travel down his chest, Harry is pretty sure he is about to implode. He lets out another moan and moves his hand, intending to curl it around the other boy’s neck, only to realise it’s still tightly wrapped around Malfoy’s. He squeezes it. In response, Malfoy’s lips part against Harry’s. Tentatively, Harry traces his tongue over his bottom lip, his heart hammering violently in his chest.

After everything they did in the last week, Harry never would have thought kissing Malfoy could be that overwhelming. But nothing could have prepared him for the feeling of his tongue, slowly sliding against the Slytherin’s. It’s better than his first bite of treacle tart. It’s more thrilling than catching the Snitch. It’s even more glorious than the first time he was able to cast a Patronus.

Their movements are still slow, and Harry can’t help but marvel at the tenderness of the kiss. This is nothing like he would have imagined kissing Draco Malfoy would be. It’s intense, but it’s the soft gasps and his gentle touch that fill Harry’s chest with heat.

He hums as Malfoy’s tongue moves against his, warm and reassuring. Slowly, he breaks the kiss and Harry feels him bury his head in the crook of his neck. Harry’s hand, gently stroking his hair, halts when he feels something wet dribbling down his collarbone.

His heart squeezes painfully as he slowly acknowledges the sheer impossibility of Draco Malfoy, crying in his arms, as reality. He wraps his arms around the other boy and presses his cheek against his forehead. He doesn’t know why Malfoy is crying, but it makes Harry tear up as well.

Nothing is ever going to be easy with them, is it?

 

* * *

 

Harry wakes with a jolt. Loud voices and footsteps fill the hospital wing. Panicked, he feels around the bed, only to find the other side empty. His disappointment quickly fades as he realises who just entered the infirmary.

“What is going on?” Madam Pomfrey inquires, sternly. “Barging in like— Oh! Is this it? You managed to do it?”

“Of course we did,” Snape answers in an irritated tone.

“Let’s wake them up, shall we?” another, much more enthusiastic, voice chuckles. Is it… Slughorn?

“What? What?” Harry hears Ron mutter sleepily. “What happened?”

“Mr Potter, wake up! Mr Malfoy!” Harry slowly sits up as Madam Pomfrey dashes through the room, agitatedly. “The antidote! They’ve brought the antidote!”

“Harry, my boy,” Slughorn booms, and Harry thinks he hears him approaching his bed. “Your suffering shall be over soon.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry says, for lack of anything better to say.

“Oh, it was no trouble, my boy.”

Harry startles when he hears Snape’s voice right beside him.

“When your vision is restored, Potter, you’ll be serving detention every night, and I mean _every_ night, in the dungeons, until your pathetic existence finally leaves this school.”

“Now now, Severus. Don’t be too hard on our Chosen One over here.” A hand falls heavily on his shoulder and Harry gulps. “I’m sure this was all just an accident, a misunderstanding.”

“Doubtful,” Snape growls.

“Um, Professor?” Harry says, turning to face Slughorn. “Where’s Professor Dumbledore?”

“Oh, he’s away on important business,” Slughorn replies.

Harry’s pulse quickens. The horcruxes.

“Now, let’s get to it. We’ve prepared a vial for each of you.” Slughorn’s hand disappears from Harry’s shoulder and a second later, he feels something being pressed into his hand.

“What’s that?” Ron asks.

“Drink it,” Slughorn says cheerfully. “Yes, drink.”

Harry weighs the vial in his hand. It’s pretty light and small.

“What, so we just drink the potion and that’s it? It will break the curse?” Harry frowns. “That’s pretty anticlimactic.”

“What did you expect, Potter?” Snape drawls. “Would you rather have us draw blood from each of you, set you up in a circle, and have house-elves perform an ancient ritual dance around you? Would that satisfy your need for theatrics?”

Harry feels his cheeks heat up and he balls his hands into fists. As much as he wants to get out of this room and help Dumbledore hunt down the horcruxes, it feels like he’ll be leaving a part of himself behind when he drinks this. Facing reality seems much harsher all of a sudden. But what’s the alternative? Stay like this forever? No, he needs all his senses to defeat Voldemort.

He uncorks the little vial and takes a deep breath.

“There isn’t really an ancient house-elf—”

“Just drink it,” Snape snaps.

Harry does, gagging at the awful taste.

“Yes, that is probably the dragon liver,” Slughorn chortles. “Extremely hard to find, horrible aftertaste.”

Harry hears Ron gag as well. Malfoy seems to have taken the potion too, judging from Slughorn’s enthusiastic comments as he collects the vials. Harry waits, concentrating hard on opening his eyes. Nothing happens.

“Err, Professor?” he murmurs. “I’m sorry, but… I don’t feel any different.”

“Oh, it might take a while before the effect kicks in. Hang in there, my boy.” Another clap on the shoulder. “By tomorrow, at the latest, everything should be back to normal.”

After Slughorn and Snape are gone, Madam Pomfrey insists they have breakfast. Harry nibbles listlessly at his toast, his thoughts revolving around Malfoy. Everything is about to change. The excitement to finally see Malfoy’s face after so long is dimmed by the sense of foreboding Harry can’t seem to shake. They’ve come so far. Malfoy finally opened up to him last night. It had been gut-wrenching to have Malfoy in his arms while he nearly sobbed, but Harry hopes it’s a sign he’s willing to finally let him in.

Ginny, Luna and Hermione quickly stop by after lunch. They all seem elated at the news of the potion. Harry tries his best to smile and follow the conversation, without seeming too distracted. He lies in his bed afterwards, restless and agitated. He just can’t shake the feeling that Malfoy will make this difficult, once things go back to normal again.

 _Whatever ‘normal’ is_ , Harry thinks gloomily. Will he continue to work for Voldemort? Will he continue with his task? Harry still doesn’t know what he’s been up to. He realises they’ve been living in their own little bubble for the last three weeks and it’s about to burst.

Gripped by a sudden desperation, he jumps out of bed and hurries over to Malfoy’s bed.

“Meet me in the bathroom.”

He stumbles off, hoping Malfoy will follow him. He grips the edge of the sink, his entire body shaking. When he hears someone shutting the door, he doesn’t waste another second. He staggers forward, pushing a seemingly surprised Malfoy against the door.

“Can I kiss you?”

Malfoy barely taps his hand twice before Harry’s lips frantically search his. He's only stunned for a moment. Then, Harry feels him bury his hands in his hair as he starts kissing back, hungrily.

Harry tries to pour all the confusing emotions, battling in his chest, into the kiss. He clutches Malfoy’s hip, pressing himself as close to the other boy as possible. When Harry pulls away, they’re both gasping for air.

“I want to kiss you there,” he murmurs, while his fingers brush Malfoy’s neck.

He waits, his impatience almost overpowering him. When he feels two taps against his scalp, he sighs and immediately lowers his head. Malfoy squirms and gasps as Harry alternates between kissing and sucking on his delicate skin. The hands in his hair move forward and tip Harry’s head back up. Malfoy licks into his mouth, making Harry shudder. There’s something so bittersweet in that kiss, he can barely stand it.

The way Malfoy keeps grinding his hips against him sends waves of shocks through him, making him harder with every gasp. He moans loudly as Malfoy moves his mouth to his neck.

“Malfoy,” he groans, not even feeling embarrassed about it. Malfoy’s hips buck forward and Harry feels him through his pyjama bottoms. He groans again, feeling like he’s losing his mind.

“I want to take you in my mouth again,” he murmurs. Malfoy stops kissing his neck and Harry feels his hot breath on his skin. Two taps. Yes.

_Thank Godric!_

He bends his knees, slowly pulling down Malfoy’s bottoms. Even though he feels a bit more confident than he did in the showers, he’s starting to get nervous again. As his fingers curl around Malfoy’s length, he moves a little closer. Malfoy’s cock somehow feels heavier in his hand all of a sudden.

Harry parts his lips and lets his tongue dart out to lick over the tip. Malfoy tastes exactly like he remembers. Slowly, he lowers his head, pulling Malfoy’s cock into his mouth, instinctively hollowing his cheeks. As he starts bobbing his head, he realises it’s very different without all the water pouring down on them. It’s not bad, because now he can smell Malfoy. It’s intoxicating and Harry finds himself aroused by it.

He brings his free hand to his own bulge and groans as he palms himself. Malfoy’s not even touching him, _he’s_ the one doing stuff to Malfoy, and yet, he’s already leaking.

Picking up the pace, he closes his lips more firmly around Malfoy’s cock. He licks, flicks and sucks, savouring every twitch and gasp. When he pushes his tongue against the underside, Malfoy makes a deep gurgling sound and Harry tries to take him deeper. Malfoy jerks and lets out a low moan, his grip on Harry’s hair getting tighter.

“H—Harry.”

Harry freezes before Malfoy does. He starts to choke. He pulls back his head, releasing Malfoy’s cock and panting furiously.

“What?”

If Harry didn’t know any better, he’d think he’s kneeling in front of a marble sculpture. Every muscle in Malfoy’s body seems to have tensed.

“Did— Did you just—” Harry blinks. He opens his mouth to try again, but…

_Hold on. I can blink!_

“I can blink!”

He remembers the light in the infirmary bathroom is very dim. Still, it hurts. Everything is a blurry mess, no matter how hard he tries to focus. His eyes wander up to Malfoy’s face. He can’t quite make out his expression, but his eyes are wide, and his mouth is hanging open.

“Malfoy,” Harry says softly as he slowly gets off the floor. He reaches out to put his hand on the other boy’s cheek, but Malfoy stops him, grabbing his wrist.

“N—No,” he stammers. Harry has never heard him stammer. His stomach is in knots as he focuses on his eyes. He still can’t see them clearly, but he detects the horror in them, and his heart sinks.

“Draco,” he says almost pleadingly. The Slytherin releases his hand and before Harry can stop him, he quickly pulls up his pyjama bottoms and darts out of the bathroom.

Harry just stands there, knowing it’s pointless to chase after him. He turns his head and his eyes catch his reflection in the mirror. His hair seems even more disheveled than usual. His face looks flushed, but his eyes hold the same horror he had seen in Draco’s.

For weeks he wanted to at least catch a glimpse of them. Now, he wishes he hadn’t. Even though the curse is broken now, Harry doesn’t feel relieved. He knows these feelings for Draco won’t just go away.

And, somehow, that feels like the real curse.

 

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

 

Draco lets his head fall back against the door, struggling for breath. Potter will kill him if he keeps doing that with his tongue. His muscles tense as he feels himself getting closer and closer to the edge.

_Merlin, I’m going to— Fuck!_

He shivers as his entire body starts to tingle.

_Oh fuck! Oh— Harry!_

He’s so close.

“H—Harry.”

Potter stops moving, and it takes Draco’s brain a second to register what just happened.

_No. No! Fuck! No!_

He stares at Potter, panic rushing through him. It was a slip. His mind wasn't working properly. It happened once before, in the showers. Draco mouthed his name soundlessly over and over again. But this time, he can’t take it back. Potter heard it.

_Fuck!_

“What?” he murmurs, looking up. His eyes are open. His eyes are _open_. Another wave of panic washes over Draco as Potter stares at him in astonishment.

“Did— Did you just—” Potter pauses, letting out a little gasp. “I can blink!”

His excitement turns into something more serious as he scrambles off the floor.

“Malfoy.”

Draco shivers, finally coming to his senses. He stops Potter’s hand before he can touch his face.

“N—No.”

Draco can’t believe he lost control like that. He’s been so stupid.

“Draco,” Potter says, and it makes Draco’s stomach flip. His eyes look soft and there’s something in them that makes Draco want to pull him closer. But he can’t. Letting his emotions control him like that has been utterly foolish. He mustn’t give in.

As he hurries out of the hospital wing, he catches a glimpse of Weasley, who shoots him a murderous look. It almost feels reassuring.

_Everything will go back to how it should be now._

As he makes his way to the dungeons, darting through the corridors, he tries to ignore the stabbing pain he feels in his chest. Putting distance between him and Potter doesn’t seem to be helping. The pain might be worse now but, in the past, he succeeded at suppressing his feelings. He can do it again.


	11. Chapter 11

Draco is avoiding him. And he’s not even doing a good job at hiding it. Yesterday, when Harry was walking through the corridors, his eyes fixed on the Marauder’s Map, he saw the little dot, labeled ‘Draco Malfoy’, approaching him. But when he looked up, he only saw the back of his head, hurrying into the opposite direction.

At meal-time, Harry’s eyes dart over to the Slytherin table, only to find Draco isn’t there. The one time Harry got a glimpse of him, he was shocked. Draco has gotten even skinnier than he assumed. And now, he’s skipping meals again, because he doesn’t want to see Harry.

 _He can’t keep avoiding me forever_ , Harry thinks, as he makes his way to his next class. It feels so strange now, wandering the halls again, going to class… Barely anyone has commented on their absence and nobody seems to be aware that anything has changed, when, in reality, Harry’s whole world has been turned upside down.

“We missed three weeks! They can’t expect us to catch up to everyone else in just a few days,” Ron complains. “It’s not fair! Is it?”

“No,” Harry says absentmindedly.

“Ugh, I can’t believe we have to hand in all the homework we missed. By the end of the week! Are they mental?”

Harry agrees and immediately wonders if he might catch Draco in the library later, doing his homework.

_Let’s see how Potions goes first._

Harry rolls his eyes at himself. He reminds himself to nod every now and then as Ron keeps moaning about their workload. When Hermione joins them on the stairs, her arms full of books, he suddenly breaks off, his eyes brightening.

“Hermione,” he exclaims.

“What?” she says, startled, almost dropping her books.

“Say something. Anything.”

“Again?” she groans. “I read my entire Arithmancy homework out loud last night, even though you didn’t understand a word of it. Aren’t you getting sick of this?”

“No,” Ron says enthusiastically. “Merlin, it’s so good to hear your voice!”

Hermione sighs, but there’s also a tinge of pink on her cheeks, Harry notices. It’s probably only a matter of time before these two get together and it’s not like he wouldn’t be happy for them, but he suspects it will be very hard to be around them. Especially while his own feelings are a tangled mess.

When they reach the dungeons, Harry’s heart leaps into his mouth. Draco is just about to enter the classroom and Harry’s gaze locks with his. He gasps at the emptiness in the Slytherin’s eyes, feeling like an icy knife is cutting through him. He could have lived with anger or resentment, but there’s absolutely nothing there, not even a hint of emotion. His head starts spinning and his shoulders convulse as Draco looks away again, as if nothing happened. Harry feels sick as he watches him vanish into the classroom.

Gripped by determination and anger, he hurries after him, relief flooding through him when he finds the seat next to Draco is still empty. He plops down beside him wordlessly and sees Ron’s flabbergasted expression out of the corner of his eyes. Hermione drags him to their usual desk, muttering something under her breath.

“What do you think you’re doing, Potter?” Pansy Parkinson demands, suddenly standing beside Harry with her arms crossed over her chest. He simply raises an eyebrow, as though he has no idea what she’s talking about. “Move over to the Gryffindor side of the room,” she says in a commanding tone.

“I don’t think so,” Harry replies. He takes out his quill and parchment and keeps his eyes on Slughorn.

“Potter,” she growls, “you better move _now_ , or I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Harry almost snorts and turns his attention back to her.

“Why do you care where I sit?” he challenges, trying to ignore the fact that basically the whole class is staring at them. Of course it’s weird for everybody else that he’s sitting next to Draco. He should have expected this kind of reaction. He holds Parkinson’s stare and leans back in his seat. “Just go back to your own seat, Parkinson. If Draco doesn’t want me here, he can tell me himself.”

He watches as Parkinson’s eyes widen and her jaw drops.

“Draco?” she shrieks. She takes a deep breath and looks like she’s about to scream when Slughorn asks them to take their seats, so they can begin. Harry can’t keep the smugness from his face as he watches Parkinson stomp to the back of the room and sit down with a deadly glare.

He peers over at Draco, wondering if he’ll ask Harry to leave. But that would mean he’d have to stop ignoring him and that, apparently, isn’t going to happen. Partly relieved, and partly irritated, Harry takes his quill and scowls at his parchment.

Concentrating on the lesson proves to be much harder, now that Draco is so close to him. It’s as though every cell in his body screams for him to reach over and touch the other boy. If only it was that simple. It seems so surreal now that, up until a few days ago, he and Draco were so close. Harry blushes, every time he thinks about all the things they did. Not that he doesn’t want to do them again, quite the contrary, but now that he’s able to see again, there seems to be this whole new barrier.

He peeks sideways and his pulse quickens when he sees Draco is absentmindedly tapping his index finger on the desk. It triggers something in Harry that should definitely not be triggered right in the middle of Potions. It doesn’t really help that Slughorn has decided to make this a theoretical lesson, rather than having them work on a potion. Harry had counted on getting the chance to talk to Draco.

As the lesson progresses, Harry tries to be as subtle as possible while his hand slowly creeps over to Draco's side of the desk. He acts as though he’s busy scribbling down notes while his stomach is in knots. When his pinky finally brushes against something, he almost lets out a whimper. He knows it’s Draco’s hand, without having to look at it. Draco’s finger twitches as Harry slowly strokes it. He concentrates hard on keeping his face impassive, while a raging storm erupts inside of him. Just as he thinks Draco might be lifting his finger, about to brush it against Harry’s hand, Slughorn dismisses the class and Harry curses under his breath as Draco quickly grabs his things and rushes off.

The brief glimpse Harry catches of his face, however, speaks volumes. His lips are parted and his cheeks are flushed, the deep pink in stark contrast to the rest of his pale skin. It encourages Harry to keep checking the Marauder’s Map, to follow Draco around unobtrusively, hoping to startle him into a conversation. After his third ambush, however, he seems to have put Draco on alert and the git seems to have improved his skills at nonverbal spells as well. More than once, Harry falls victim to the Jelly-Legs-Jinx, leaving him incapacitated while Draco takes off in a hurry.

Potions, as it turns out, is the only time Harry is able to corner him. Not that this prompts Draco to be more forthcoming. He keeps ignoring Harry’s presence, only barely acknowledging him when he needs the ingredients Harry has chopped up messily. Still, he flinches whenever their hands touch and Harry feels his body go rigid every time Harry steps up behind him and takes a peek at the cauldron. Surely, Draco knows Harry is doing these things on purpose, but he never comments on it. Actually, he hasn’t said a word to Harry, since… well, since the unfortunate events in the infirmary bathroom. But it makes Harry only more determined to get a reaction out of him, while resolutely ignoring the icy glares from Parkinson.

His seemingly innocent touches turn bolder with every lesson; putting his hand on Draco's knee under the desk, sitting so close to him that their thighs are pressed up against each other, and tentatively stroking Draco’s free hand while he stirs the potion.

One day, when class is almost over, Harry decides to go a bit further. Making sure nobody is paying attention to them, he makes a grab for Draco’s hand, feeling strangely uneasy about it.

_It’s only hand-holding._

It isn’t, though. And the moment Draco pulls his hand out of Harry’s grip and immediately storms into the storage room, it’s very clear how much more it really means and that they both know it. The rejection stings and Harry probably should leave him alone, but his feet move before his mind can stop him. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he slips into the storage room and finds Draco with his back to him. He’s gripping one of the shelves, his head bowed. Harry isn’t sure if he heard him come in, and approaches him cautiously.

Mentally preparing himself for Draco to attack or hex him, he slowly reaches out and puts his hand on his shoulder. He feels the jolt that goes through the other boy’s body, but he doesn’t turn around. His grip on the shelf seems to be getting tighter, turning his knuckles white. He lets out a shuddering breath and Harry has no idea what to make of it. He steps closer, unsure of what to do, his eyes burning into the back of Draco’s head. Despair bubbles up inside him, along with a presentiment of doom. He wants to be honest with him, he wants him to know how he feels about him, and at the same time, he wants to take that secret to his grave. He’ll get his heart broken as soon as he says something. And yet, staying silent seems so much worse.

Harry hates feeling this conflicted. He never seems to make the right decision in a situation like this. He’s too impulsive, whereas Draco is either too stubborn or he’s more rational than Harry. Whether that means he’s seeing things more clearly or he’s being rational because _his_ feelings aren’t on the line, isn’t something Harry wants to think about for too long. Instead, he slowly lowers his head until his forehead joins his hand on Draco’s shoulder.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispers, not having intended on saying it out loud. Draco lets him stay like this for another moment before Harry feels him move, dread quickly spreading through his body. He finally turns around, his expression unreadable. Harry studies his face, taking in the sharp lines that felt so soft against his fingers. He can’t remember if he’s ever been this close to Draco while being able to see him.

Dread suddenly grips him when he spots something on Draco’s left cheek. It’s faint, shimmering almost silver in the dim light. But it’s there, unmistakable and almost reaches from his ear to his jaw. A scar.

_Did I do that?_

Harry doesn’t remember ever seeing it before, but had he ever been close enough to Draco to notice it? Is this Voldemort’s doing, or…

 _It must have been me_ , Harry thinks, feeling like he’s choking. _I did that._

Before he can reach out and touch it, Draco suddenly grabs him and spins them around, so Harry’s back is against the shelf. He fights the urge to grab at the other boy as well, balling his hands into fists at his sides. His lips part involuntarily as Draco scrutinises him, his eyes flicking down to Harry’s mouth. Harry wants to tell him to go ahead, but the words die on the tip of his tongue when their eyes meet. Draco’s gaze is so intense, it turns Harry’s insides to ice and lava at the same time.

_Is he… angry? Or is he…_

Harry gulps, his knees already feeling a bit wobbly and his scalp prickling.

“What do you want?” he whispers, forcing himself to hold Draco’s gaze. It feels like they’re standing there for hours, until the other boy finally answers. He lets go of Harry’s arm and slowly traces the line of his jaw. Surprised by the tender touch, Harry closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. He shivers as Draco’s thumb brushes against his lower lip and it takes everything in him to withhold the whimper that’s threatening to spill out of him. Draco moves his hand lower, gently drawing a line down Harry’s throat.

“Yes,” Harry sighs, his body immediately trembling in anticipation. Draco hesitates for a second and then, with a pleasant jolt, Harry feels his lips right underneath his ear. Instinctively, Harry’s hands find Draco’s hips, pulling him closer, pressing their bodies together. It’s exactly as thrilling as he remembers it.

As Draco sucks his way to the other side of his neck, it occurs to him that one thing is very different now. He can see Draco. He can watch him.

His eyes snap open, his fingers digging into the fabric of the the other boy’s robes.

“I want to look at you,” Harry whispers, unthinkingly. Draco freezes and Harry mentally slaps himself.

_You could have just done it without informing him, you idiot!_

Draco slowly pulls back, keeping his head bowed and avoiding Harry’s eyes. Just as Harry is about to put a finger under his chin, to force him to look up, he turns around and walks over to the door. By now, Harry is more used to seeing his back than his face, and still, the sight shatters his heart into a million pieces. He wants to look away, spare himself the agony of having to watch Draco walk away from him, but he can’t. He can’t keep his eyes off him.

But, strangely enough, instead of leaving the room, Draco takes out his wand and points it at the door. Harry hears a faint clicking sound and his eyes widen when Draco faces him again. The Slytherin keeps his eyes on the floor and it’s almost as if he’s moving in slow motion as he lets his robes slide down his shoulders to his elbows, leans back against the door, and… hesitates.

Harry waits, stock-still, not daring to breathe. His eyes dart down when he sees Draco moving his hands to his trousers. It takes him a second to register Draco is undoing them.

_Oh! That’s… actually… not what I meant…_

Harry’s eyes stay fixed on Draco’s hands as he opens his trousers enough to palm himself over his pants. When he starts to move his hand in circles, rubbing himself, Harry’s pulse goes into overdrive. It seems too much for his brain to comprehend that, not only is Draco touching himself in front of him, but he’s allowed to watch. It’s absolutely mesmerising; the growing bulge, the rosy tint on the pale cheeks, his slightly parted lips, the way his hair almost falls into his eyes…

His eyes are closed, Harry notices, but he’s furrowing his brow every now and then, accompanied by a drawn-out exhale. This, Harry decides, is the most arousing thing he’s ever seen. He can feel his own excitement growing and just when he decides to touch himself as well, Draco lets out a low moan, and Harry, almost falling over, thinks he might come in his pants, completely untouched.

He feels dazed, his entire body tingling as he stumbles across the room to the other boy. It’s almost like his body refuses to stay away from Draco for another second. His gaze flickers down to Draco’s hands, one grabbing his cock through his pants, the other playing with his waistband. Harry swallows, trying to calm himself, as his eyes wander upwards, to his mouth. Without realising what he’s doing, he reaches out and cups Draco’s cheek, his left cheek, the one with the scar. It’s soft and warm against his palm. The feeling doesn’t match the expression on Draco’s face. He’s finally opened his eyes, staring at Harry with a mixture of bewilderment and wariness. Harry’s chest tightens at the thought that his touch caused this. How can Draco be looking at him like that when Harry feels like his blood is singing in his veins?

Moving deliberately slow, Harry brushes his fingers over Draco's mouth before he starts to move closer, to bring their lips together. He feels Draco’s breath on his face, making him shiver, but before he can close the gap between them, Draco turns away. Harry blinks, staring at his ear. What just happened? Did he misread the situation? But… Draco had been about to wank in front of him. They had wanked each other off so many times…

Not knowing what else to do, Harry brings his hand to Draco’s other cheek, turning his face towards him.

“I— I want to— Can— Can I kiss you?”

Harry’s stomach plummets as Draco slowly narrows his eyes, his lips pressed into a tight line.

“No,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. He turns sideways again, scowling at the shelves.

“Draco,” Harry whispers, his voice thick with emotion. Before he can say anything else, Draco shoves him away and Harry lands on his arse. He gapes at the Slytherin, who looks down on him with such a cold expression, it almost makes Harry cringe. He watches as Draco turns on his heels, unlocks the door and opens it. Harry’s breath catches in his throat when he hesitates in the doorframe. He has no idea what to expect next. Draco is sending him so many mixed signals, it makes his head spin. But then, he clenches his fists and starts to move out of the room.

“Don’t ever do that again, Potter.”

And without a backwards glance, he’s gone.

Harry stays on the floor of the storage room so long, he misses his next class. Draco’s words echo in his mind over and over again, making him feel numb. With shaking fingers, he takes out the Marauder’s Map from the inside pocket of his robes and whispers, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

His eyes dart over the map, searching for Draco, but he’s nowhere to be found. That can only mean one thing. He’s gone to the Room of Requirement again.

Anger shoots through Harry, mingling with disappointment and anguish.

_What the fuck does he think he’s doing?_

Jumping off the floor, he dashes out of the dungeons. He catches his breath as he sprints up the stairs and almost crashes into Professor Trelawney, who seems to be a bit wobbly on her feet as she struggles to keep her arms around the many sherry bottles she’s carrying.

“Sorry, Professor,” he calls over his shoulder.

When he finally arrives on the seventh floor, he takes a deep breath. He has tried this many times before. This might turn out to be another failed attempt, but he has to try. He starts pacing back and forth in front of the blank wall he has visited so many times, concentrating hard.

_I want to see Draco. Please, let me see him._

He has no idea if the magic of the room will accept his plea. He’s supposed to think about a place, not a person, but that hasn’t worked so far. Maybe this will.

_I want to talk to him. Please, let me see him._

He slows down, his eyes fixed on the wall. Nothing is happening. He stomps his foot in frustration.

“Come on,” he growls, slamming his hand against the wall.

“There you are, Harry.”

He looks sideways, startled, to find Luna beaming at him.

“Are we having another DA meeting?” she asks, cocking her head.

“Um, no,” Harry mumbles. “What is it, Luna?” he asks, not in the mood to explain himself.

“Oh, I have a message from Professor Dumbledore,” she says, opening her bag and rummaging through it. “Here.” She hands him a piece of parchment and looks at the wall. “I really miss our meetings.”

“Yeah,” Harry murmurs absentmindedly as he unfolds the note. His eyes widen and his heart rate picks up rapidly.

“Luna, when did you get this?”

“An hour ago,” she says, smiling at him.

Harry nods, suddenly feeling frantic.

“Thanks,” he tells her, before he starts to run as fast as his feet will take him.

Dumbledore has found another Horcrux. And he wants Harry to come with him. But first, he’s supposed to get his Invisibility Cloak.

Hoping it’s not too late, Harry races through the castle while grey eyes, scrutinising him coldly, still linger in the back of his mind.

 

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

 

He had sworn to himself it would never happen again. Never again would he give in to temptation. But all it required was Potter’s soft gaze, the vulnerability in his voice, for Draco to snap. Thank Merlin he had come to his senses before it had gotten completely out of hand. He’s not to be trusted around Potter. But that won’t be a problem much longer now, will it?

Draco leans his forehead against the Vanishing Cabinet, tasting something vile and bitter in his mouth. Tonight, it will all be over. Potter won’t want to see him again afterwards, and that, he thinks gloomily, is exactly the way things should be.


	12. Chapter 12

Dumbledore is dead. Dumbledore is _dead_. _Dumbledore_ is… dead.

No matter how many times Harry repeats the words in his head, he still can’t understand it. He still can’t understand how Snape could do this. And Draco… Harry had heard the fear in his voice, had seen it on his face, but still…

He tries to fight the tears that are threatening to stream down his face, leaning his head against the wall. Dumbledore is dead and it was all for nothing. The locket isn’t even a real horcrux.

He looks over at his packed trunk, Hedwig’s cage sitting on top of it. The clock on his bedside table reads 3:45. Only a few more hours and he’ll leave Privet Drive for good. He has no idea how he, Ron and Hermione are supposed to find the real horcruxes. He’s still debating if he should be going alone, not wanting to put his friends in any more danger. He could leave right now. But where would he go?

Sighing, he grabs his blanket, deciding to catch a few hours of sleep when he suddenly hears a loud ‘crack’ behind him. His head whips around so fast, he gives himself vertigo.

There, in the middle of his tiny room, stands Draco, only illuminated by the faint moonlight glistening through the window. Still, Harry can clearly see the swollen, purple mark on his left cheek, the cut on his bottom lip, and the angry red streaks on his neck.

All Harry can do is stare, confusion and shock crashing down on him. Draco seems startled as well and Harry wonders why, when he’s the one who apparated here.

“Potter,” Draco begins, but immediately falls silent when he sees the look on Harry’s face. Harry has a million questions, but he has no idea which one to ask first. Tears form in his eyes again, but he holds them back with all his might, resolute on not letting Draco see him cry.

“How could you?” he finally says, his voice breaking. “How could you do that?”

Draco’s eyes dart to the floor, his face twisting into something painful.

“I knew Voldemort had something on you,” Harry says in an accusing tone. “I knew you didn’t want to do this. I knew it!”

Draco flinches, but Harry ignores it.

“But you did it anyway, you let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts and you let Snape kill Dumbledore!” He grabs his wand and jumps off the bed. “I see Voldemort rewarded you for your success,” he growls, pointing his wand at Draco’s cheek. “Did he send you here? Is that it? Are you here to kill me in my sleep?”

Harry’s heart races in his chest as he fixes the other boy with a glare. He arches an eyebrow when he sees something resembling a smirk forming on Draco’s lips.

“Good, so you’re finally done feeling sorry for me,” he murmurs.

“Feeling sorry for you?” Harry echoes, incredulously.

“Save it, Potter. I never needed your pity.”

“What makes you think—” Harry tightens the grip on his wand. “I’m not pitying you. I’m very far from it.”

“Good,” Draco repeats. His calm demeanour only makes Harry more furious.

“Why did you— How could you? I thought— We were—”

“Oh, please,” Draco interrupts him. “You’re not going to get sentimental on me, are you?”

“No,” Harry retorts. Somehow, it sounds more like a question than a statement. He clears his throat, hoping to sound more dignified as he says, “At least I’m not incapable of showing my feelings.”

Draco only snorts.

“Don’t pretend like nothing happened,” Harry hisses. “You admitted it! You admitted you feel something for me!”

“I did nothing of the sort,” Draco says.

“Draco—”

“Don’t,” he growls. “Don’t say anything you’ll regret later, Potter. And STOP saying my name.”

Harry lowers his wand, hoping he won’t regret it and swiftly walks up to the other boy.

“So this,” he reaches out and puts his hand on Draco’s chest. “This meant nothing?”

Draco slaps his hand away and shoves him.

“Do NOT touch me,” he warns, his chest heaving.

Harry balls his hands into fists and grits his teeth. At least Draco is showing _some_ kind of emotion now.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says, forcing himself to stay calm.

“Potter, you’re even more delusional than I thought. That didn’t mean anything. _You_ don’t mean anything to me. To everyone else you might be the Chosen One, but to me, you’re nobody.”

“You’ve been dying to throw that in my face, haven’t you?” Harry says bitterly. “Why are you here then?”

Draco doesn’t answer, his gaze fixed on Harry’s window.

“I don’t believe a word you’re saying,” Harry says through gritted teeth. “I’ve never been nobody to you, I—”

“Spare me your ego!”

“Honestly, Draco, you’re not even trying to come up with a proper lie. I know you. I’ve gotten to know a whole new side of you and I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. And neither can you!”

“You still don’t get it,” Draco says in a condescending tone. “That doesn’t change anything! I’m not the person you made up in your head! I have my beliefs and you have yours. End of story.”

“How can you say nothing has changed? _Everything_ has changed!”

“No it hasn’t! And if you still can’t see it, even after what happened the other—”

“I know what happened the other night,” Harry snaps. “And I know why you did it.”

“No, Potter, you don’t know anything! Don’t make any assumptions based on what you _think_ is the truth.”

“No,” Harry says stubbornly. “I know you. You wouldn’t do this if—”

“Merlin, Potter, are you even listening to yourself? I’m a Death Eater! Have you suddenly forgotten?” Draco grabs his left sleeve and for a second, Harry thinks he’s going to roll it back and show him the Dark Mark. “I’m everything you hate in this world.”

Harry cringes. He can’t deny the truth in Draco’s words. He has been feeling so conflicted over the last few days, fury, despair, and loneliness battling in his chest. More than once he asked himself how he could possibly be _missing_ Draco when he betrayed him like that.

“You’re honestly telling me you’re a loyal Death Eater?” Harry murmurs quietly. “That you’re doing this because you believe in Voldemort?” Draco flinches again at the sound of the name. “Because I don’t believe for a second—”

“What, you don’t believe I think Mudbloods are filthy and they shouldn’t be part of our society? That it doesn’t disgust me, every time a wizard or a witch gets together with a Muggle and tells them all of our secrets?” Draco scoffs. “Because I do! I do think all of those things. You’re even more pathetic and gullible than I thought!”

Harry can’t tell if he’s just saying these things to hurt him or if he’s telling the truth. Maybe he does believe all those things, it’s what his parents have taught him. This Pure-blood-status-nonsense has been drilled into him ever since he was a child. But maybe it’s not too late to show him how misguided he’s been.

“That doesn’t make you loyal to Voldemort,” Harry says determinedly. “It means you and I have very different beliefs and I won’t pretend I’m not repulsed by the idea that you would think of someone as filthy, just because they happen to have Muggle parents. It makes me want to punch you that you condone torturing—”

“I didn’t say that,” Draco interjects heatedly. “I didn’t say anything about torture.”

Harry’s eyes search his face and he can see something, something resembling fear. He tries to ignore the drumming of his pulse in his ears and takes a deep breath.

“You can’t tell me you’re supporting this— this— maniac because you believe he’ll make the world a better place for you.” He leans forward, focusing on Draco’s eyes. “You’re doing this because he’s threatening to kill you and your family.”

The silence that follows seems stifling. Draco looks away again and it hasn’t escaped Harry’s notice that he tensed up.

“My mother was a Muggleborn,” Harry says quietly. “I’m a Half-Blood. Does that make me filthy? Do I disgust you? Did you have to force yourself to touch or kiss me? Why did you even do it?”

Draco purses his lips, still avoiding Harry’s eyes.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” he mutters.

“Yes, you do. You kissed me. _You asked_ if you could kiss me! You kept coming to my bed every night.”

_And then you left. You always left._

“Clearly, it was a mistake. Trust me, it won’t happen again.”

“I know you feel something for me,” Harry insists.

“I don’t,” Draco says with a snort and Harry narrows his eyes.

“Your finger just twitched, I saw it,” he says, pointing at the Slytherin’s hand. “You might be trying to convince me that this was all in my head, but your body is telling the truth. You just wanted to tap my hand, didn’t you?”

“Don’t make me laugh, Potter,” Draco retorts with a sneer, but Harry sees his finger twitch again.

“Maybe you’re too scared to admit it,” Harry sighs, “but I’m not.”

“Of course! Because everyone else is a bloody coward, compared to the great Harry Potter,” Draco snarls.

“That’s not really how you see me, Draco, is it?”

“For the last time, Potter, stop saying my name.”

“You said it first,” Harry counters. “You said my name when—” He breaks off, choking on the words. He peers at Draco, whose lips are pressed into a tight line. “You don’t think this is bloody confusing to me?” Harry murmurs. “This has been driving me up the wall. You think I can just forget about what you did?” He sees Draco’s jaw clench. “It’s not like I obliviated myself, or that I’m condoning—”

“Then what?” Draco demands.

“I still wanted to be with you!”

Harry’s words echo through the room as he tries to regain his composure and prays he didn’t wake the Dursleys.

“You don’t think I know how mental that is? I wanted to be with you, even though you’re a Death Eater. Even though I’d do anything in my power to keep your father, who you’re so desperately trying to protect, from ever setting foot outside of Azkaban again. Even though the guilt of what I did to you in Myrtle’s bathroom is eating me up inside—” His voice breaks and he shakes his head. “I wanted to be with you, in spite of everything that was standing between us. But now… I don’t know if I can forgive you.”

Something flickers across Draco’s face and even though Harry can’t quite put his finger on it, it almost looks like he’s hurt.

“Has it ever occurred to you to include me in this decision? Because you keep saying you wanted to be with me, as if that’s all it would have taken. One word from you and we would have lived happily ever after.”

“That’s not—”

“Potter, we’re not friends, we’re certainly not lovers. Why do you have to make this harder than it already is?”

“What?”

“Everything you just said— We’re on opposing sides. Only one of us is going to win.”

“I’m going to defeat him,” Harry says, his voice suddenly much steadier and determined. He doesn’t bat an eyelash when Draco starts laughing scornfully.

“You have no idea what you’re up against, Potter. Don’t be foolish and run while you can. Save yourself.”

“No,” Harry says immediately. “I’m going to defeat him and I’m going to save you.”

“Save me?” he snorts. “You and your enormous hero complex might not understand this, but not everybody wants to be saved.”

“I think you do.”

“You’re delusional.”

“No, I’m in love.”

Much too late, Harry registers what he just said, his eyes widening in shock. Draco seems to share the sentiment. He runs a hand through his hair, grinding his teeth.

“Stop saying— Ugh!”

“Why?” Harry says in a challenging tone. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Look at us,” Draco shouts. “You’re… you and I’m—” He pauses, struggling for words. “You can’t be— I assure you, you’re not! You can’t be!”

“Why? Because you’re not worth loving?”

As soon as the words are out, Harry wishes he could take them back. Draco stares at him, clearly stunned. For weeks, Harry’s greatest wish had been to see the other boy’s face and be able to talk to him. He should have known that getting his wish would come at a price. The universe has a funny way of demonstrating just how much it doesn’t want him to be happy, putting a cruel twist on anything remotely good that’s ever happened in his life. Why should this be any different?

The pain, clearly visible on Draco’s face this time, leaves Harry’s stomach in knots.

“Draco—”

“No!” he yells. “Stop it! I don’t want to hear it!”

Harry presses his lips together, thinking hard.

“Just tell me you’re loyal to Voldemort and this whole discussion will be over,” Harry offers. He swallows around the lump in his throat and tries to keep his face impassive. Draco says nothing, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“See? You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to be a part of this.”

“I never thought you were that naive,” Draco murmurs, shaking his head. “You really think it’s that easy? That I can just decide to turn my back on him?” His eyes find Harry’s again. They’re full of terror.

“Do it, Draco. Decide for yourself for once.”

“I CAN’T!”

Harry flinches at Draco’s outburst. He almost steps back when he leans forward, pointing a finger at him.

“You really think I’d risk my parents’ lives for this?”

“I—”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to this. He realises he doesn’t have a plan, he doesn’t know how to help Draco. He takes a deep breath, as though that will help him think more clearly.

“Why did you come here?” he asks, studying the other boy’s face. “Did Vol—”

“No, he didn’t send me,” Draco snaps. “I had to sneak out of the Manor, which is almost impossible to do.”

Harry doesn’t know what to make of that.

“You just said you couldn’t risk—”

“I know what I said,” Draco interrupts him. He shoves his hand into his robes, taking out a little vial. It looks like the memories Dumbledore showed him.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” Draco mumbles, almost sounding sheepish. “I just wanted to leave this here.” He studies the vial, biting his lip, as if he’s trying to decide if he should really give it to Harry. Frowning, Harry stretches out his hand, palm up, motioning to Draco to hand it over. When he does, his fingertips brush against Harry’s, making them both gasp.

Without taking his eyes off Draco, he slowly walks over to his bedside table, puts down the vial and picks up one of the coins he hasn’t put in his trunk yet. Maybe this is a mistake, he thinks, as he approaches Draco again, but… he never thought he’d get a chance like this.

“I don’t even know why I’m giving you this,” Harry says, his eyes on the coin.

“What is it?” Draco asks. He takes the coin from Harry’s palm, eyeing it sceptically. “You’re giving me money? Is this some kind of a joke?”

“It’s not money, it’s— Ugh!” Harry gestures around wildly, unsure of how to explain it. “I asked Hermione to charm it, but I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

“Charm it how?” Draco asks, intrigue audible in his voice.

“It’s… nothing,” Harry murmurs, his tone resigned. “Just… take it, or give it back, I don’t care.”

Draco scowls at the coin, but closes his hand around it. They both stand there in silence, avoiding each other’s eye. There’s still so much Harry wants to say, so much he wants to ask Draco, but instead, he only murmurs, “I’m not coming back to Hogwarts.”

“I figured,” Draco says, sounding much colder again.

Harry frowns, fumbling with the hem of his shirt. “Do you think we’ll ever see each other again?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Draco gripping his wand a little tighter. Afraid to look at his expression, Harry keeps his eyes there.

“If we don’t,” Draco says in a low voice, “it’s probably because I’m dead.”

And with that, he disapparates.

* * *

 

Out of all the ways Harry imagined him and Draco meeting again, this definitely wasn’t amongst his fantasies. Draco hadn’t looked starved, beaten and frightened to death in his mind, and Harry hadn’t been a prisoner and his face definitely hadn’t been this swollen.

It’s been seven months and twenty days since they’ve last seen each other and even though his eyes immediately want to dart over to Draco, Harry forces himself to keep his gaze on Greyback. Staring at Draco will only give him away. He tries to keep his face impassive as Lucius Malfoy and his wife start talking to Greyback agitatedly. Dread crashes down on him when he notices Narcissa Malfoy regarding him closely.

“Let me look at him,” she says, her tone commanding and cold. Greyback unties Harry from the others and while he acts as though he’s struggling against the werewolf’s grip, Harry shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. Greyback drags him forward, forcing his face up in front of Narcissa Malfoy. Her eyes bore into Harry’s, but her forehead creases the longer she looks at him.

“Draco, come here,” she calls out, and Harry stops breathing. Will Draco know it’s him? Will he betray Harry for the sake of his family?

His heart starts beating frantically as he sees Draco rise from one of the armchairs. His mother steps aside, making room for him. Avoiding Draco’s gaze becomes impossible as soon as Harry gets a glimpse of the pale grey eyes that haunt his dreams. He doesn’t dare to blink as Draco studies his face.

“Well, Draco?” Harry hears Lucius whisper. “Is it him?”

“I can’t—” Draco hesitates and Harry feels like the whole drawing room is filled with the boisterous beating of his heart. “I can’t be sure,” Draco says. Harry sees one of his eyes twitch and before he can decide against it, he moves his fingers inside his pocket. It’s a long shot, Draco might not even have the coin anymore, but if he does…

Harry’s breath catches in his throat as Draco’s eyes widen, just a fraction. But it’s enough for Harry to know he got the message. Maybe it was stupid, maybe he just signed his own death sentence.

“Come on, Draco,” Lucius hisses. “Look properly!”

Harry’s entire body goes rigid when Draco slowly leans down, reaches out and puts his hand on Harry’s chest. His eyes are narrowed and his lips in a tight line.

“I don’t know,” he finally says and walks back to his armchair.

The relief Harry feels doesn’t last long, though, as Lucius pressures Draco into confirming Hermione’s identity and all hell breaks loose.

Everything happens so fast and in such a blur, Harry isn’t sure he’s remembering everything correctly afterwards. What he does remember, however, is the look on Draco’s face when Harry wrested his wand, along with two others, from him. Harry has already used the wand several times now and it seems to be working fine. It almost feels reassuring, having something so meaningful of Draco’s in his hand, but…  Harry having his wand means that Draco is basically defenceless. And when Harry, Ron, Hermione and the others fled, Voldemort had been on his way to the Manor. Harry shudders at the thought what he might have done to Draco.

_He didn’t— He didn’t kill him, did he?_

Harry pulls out the coin he always keeps in his pocket and activates it. He holds it for days, even sleeping with the coin in his hand, waiting for an answer.

 

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

 

“Well, Draco? Is it him?”

“I can’t— I can’t be sure.”

Draco prays his father doesn’t recognise the quivering in his voice as he tries to be as vague as possible in his lie. Of course he’s sure. How could he not be? His gaze lingers on Potter’s eyes, his heart clenching painfully. He immediately wonders if Potter has seen his memories yet, if he knows everything.

And then, Draco feels it. In the inside of his pocket. Something warm. He immediately knows what it is. It took him months to figure out what the strange coin Potter gave him does. Countless times, he studied the coin, turning it this way and that, unable to work out how to activate it. He suspected it to be similar to the coins Potter and his friends used in fifth year, to arrange their meetings in the Room of Requirement. Draco used the same charm to communicate with Madam Rosmerta, but this coin was different, he realised.

It was the middle of night when an idea had struck him. Tentatively, he took the coin from his bedside table and tapped it twice. Surely enough, the coin felt warm seconds after that. He smiled, in spite of himself.

_Potter, you dumb, overly sentimental fool!_

He’s thinking the same, right now. How could Potter risk exposure like this? Besides, as if Draco needs any confirmation. Of course he knows it’s him. He’d always know.

Draco forces himself not to flinch, not even to twitch a finger as he stares impassively into those green eyes. What is he supposed to do? The Dark Lord will torture them, he’ll  probably kill them all if they let Potter and his friends escape. Draco can’t be responsible for the death of his family. But can he bear the responsibility of Potter’s death? Of their only hope? The person he wishes more than anything will save them? The person he—

_Don’t. Don’t go there now._

He knows this is the most significant decision of his life. Maybe even more significant than taking the Dark Mark.

Without breathing, he leans down. He knows it’s risky, he knows it’s stupid, but he wants Potter to _know_. Hoping that it will look like he’s just examining the swollen face in front of him more closely, he narrows his eyes and slowly puts his hand on Potter’s chest. Right over his heart.

 _Don’t do anything, Potter,_ he implores him in his mind. _Do not react._

He doesn’t. He just stares at Draco.

It’s hard not to regret his decision when his mother lies in a pool of her own blood shortly after, his father lying knocked out beside her, and Draco screams at the top of his lungs as the Dark Lord tortures him. Still, he couldn’t have let the Dark Lord kill Potter. It was the right thing to do, aside from his selfish reasons.

But doing the right thing, Draco learns, apparently means you have to be willing to make sacrifices. And suddenly, he’s terrified again, because there’s one person who always does the right thing and he might be willing to sacrifice everything.


	13. Chapter 13

Harry braces himself against Dumbledore’s desk, the Pensieve in front of him. His clothes still reek of smoke from the Fiendfyre and his hands are still smeared with Snape’s blood.

With shaking fingers, he puts down the flask, containing the Potion Master’s memory, placing Draco’s vial right beside it. Which one should he look at first? Somehow, it feels too selfish to start with Draco’s, but Harry has been dying to know what kind of memories Draco pulled out of his head for him. And, surely, whatever Snape has wanted him to see can’t be pleasant.

Nodding at his own reasoning, Harry takes the little vial, pours it into the Pensieve and dives in. The memories swirl around him like wafts of mist until one manifests itself into a room Harry doesn’t recognise.

It’s dark. All the curtains are drawn and there’s only a single candle burning beside a gigantic four-poster bed. Harry spots Draco immediately, his white blond hair gleaming in the candle light. He’s sitting in an armchair, right beside the bed, his elbows on his knees. Harry slowly walks over to him, concentrating on his face. He looks exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes making his face seem even paler. But he’s not as gaunt as the last time Harry has seen him. There’s a copy of the Daily Prophet on the foot of the bed and Harry cocks his head to read the date. August 15th, 1995. It’s the summer before they started sixth year.

His gaze wanders upwards and he gasps when he sees the milky figure of, at least he suspects, Narcissa Malfoy. She looks nothing like Harry remembers her. Her hair is dishevelled, there are slashes all over her face and there’s a deep cut along her throat that looks fatal. Honestly, if Harry didn’t know any better, he’d think she’s dead.

Draco’s eyes are fixed on her, his hands pressed against his mouth. Harry steps closer to him, his heart sinking. He looks so sad. No, sad isn’t the right word. He looks… shattered. As though he’s abandoned all hope.

Harry jumps when someone pounds on the door with such force, it seems like the whole room is quaking. Draco presses his lips together, terror visible on his face, as he quickly gets up and darts to the door. He opens it just a crack and scowls at the person on the other side.

“What?” he snaps, but Harry hears the quivering in his voice.

“He wants your mother,” the other person, probably a Death Eater, says gruffly. Draco balls his hands into fists and Harry sees his jaw clench.

“She’s still unconscious.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the Death Eater replies and pushes Draco aside.  
  
“No,” Draco yells, leaping forward and blocking the Death Eater’s way. “I won’t let you touch her.”

The Death Eater laughs derisively, shoving Draco aside.

“No! Take me! Take me to him instead,” he pleads. The Death Eater arches an eyebrow, eyeing Draco from head to toe, and shrugs.

“Have it your way then,” he grumbles, seizing Draco by his collar and drags him away.

Harry stays rooted to the spot, knowing he won’t want to witness what’s coming next. The Manor is eerily quiet, making his skin crawl. The door to Narcissa’s room is still open and Harry slowly approaches it, as if an invisible force pulls him forward. He freezes, mid-step, when he suddenly hears an ear-piercing scream. It cuts through him like an icy knife, making him choke and forcing him to his knees. He closes his eyes tightly, mentally begging for the memory to dissolve. He knew Voldemort tortured Draco, but to hear him…

Harry only hopes he won’t have to see it. It seems like forever until the screaming finally stops. But instead of being relieved, an irrational fear bubbles up inside Harry’s chest. He knows Draco didn’t die, but the sudden silence makes it seem like Voldemort has finished what he started.

Afraid of what he’ll see next, Harry stays on his knees and only opens his eyes to slits, slowly taking in the new scene in front of him. He’s in the hospital wing, and he sees himself, sitting on his bed with his eyes closed, talking to Ginny. He’s laughing at something she said while she pats his hand. Harry arches an eyebrow, wondering why Draco is showing him this. His gaze flickers over to the Slytherin, who’s lying in his bed, scowling at the ceiling. Every now and then, he peeks over at Harry and Ginny, only to turn back to the ceiling, his expression turning more sour. He looks like he’s trying to make the ceiling collapse on them with sheer willpower. Harry still doesn’t understand how this trivial memory found its way into the vial when the scene suddenly changes.

Harry recognises it immediately, but still, he scrambles off the floor and stumbles forward to get a better look. Draco is standing beside his bed, stroking his hair. It’s an odd sight, not only because Harry is looking at himself, pale and sick, but mainly because… Draco isn’t just stroking his hair. It’s the look on his face that makes this absolutely mesmerising. Harry has never seen Draco’s face look so soft, so vulnerable.

_But… I don’t understand…_

Harry stares at him, a million thoughts racing through his mind. Harry had been stressing about this for days; why Draco had taken care of him, why he had let Harry hold his hand that night. Now that he sees the way Draco is looking at him, it’s like Harry’s whole world is shifting.

As if on cue, Harry suddenly finds himself outside the castle, in the glistening sunlight. Heart thudding in his chest, he listens to his own voice.

“Maybe we could come up with a signal. You know, for when you want to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

Draco rolls his eyes and Harry grins inevitably.

 _I knew it_ , he thinks. But then, he sees something that almost makes him fall to his knees again.

Draco is smiling.

Draco had been smiling at him, while Harry had been completely oblivious. He realises this is actually the first time he’s seeing him smile.

_It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful._

Unconsciously, Harry takes a step forward, dazed by the sight in front of him. He almost stumbles when he’s suddenly plunged into darkness, only to be blinded by a glaring green light a second later. He hears a high-pitched laugh he only knows too well and everything in him turns to ice. He has to remind himself this is only a memory, but still, when he sees Voldemort, his face twists in fury.

Voldemort’s fingers are curled around Draco’s throat, his expression gleeful as he addresses the person standing opposite of him.

“Harry Potter,” he hisses, and Harry freezes. His eyes widen in confusion when he realises it’s _him_ who’s standing opposite Voldemort.

_But… that never happened. This can’t be a memory._

“Let him go,” Harry hears himself say. Voldemort lets out another high-pitched laugh, tightening his grip on Draco’s throat.

“NO,” Harry roars and darts forward. Voldemort’s laugh echoes through the darkness before he raises his wand with a flourish.

“Avada Kedavra!”

There’s that blinding green light again, followed by a dull thud.

“Nooooooo!”

For a moment, Harry has no idea what’s happening or who’s screaming. But then, Draco wrests himself free of Voldemort and flings himself on the ground. He starts to shake Harry’s lifeless body frantically, tears falling from his eyes.

“No! NO!”

Seeing himself lying on the ground, eyes torn open and face grotesque, leaves Harry stunned. He watches his own head sway from side to side while Draco keeps shaking him, sobbing helplessly. Harry still doesn’t understand what the hell is going on. Is this some kind of premonition?

Unlike the other memories, this one doesn’t dissolve into mist. The scene simply becomes blurry, accompanied by a distant voice, Harry recognises as his own.

“Malfoy! Malfoy, wake up!”

There Harry is again, eyes closed and hunched over Draco's bed in the hospital wing.

“It’s okay. It was just a dream.”

Draco blinks several times and reaches out, his hand hovering inches away from Harry’s cheek. His finger twitches and he quickly pulls back when Harry asks, “Are you okay?”

Draco gapes at him, as if he can’t believe Harry is really standing in front of him.

“Malfoy, are you okay?”

Draco’s eyes are suddenly impossibly wide as Harry cups his cheek, mirroring the gesture the Slytherin had almost done to him.

“I know what it’s like. Try to take deep breaths.”

It’s the night of Draco’s nightmare, Harry finally realises.

_And he dreamed I was… dead._

For a second, Harry feels like he’s dreaming himself. It’s the kind of revelation he has no idea how to process. It puts a new complexion on… everything. Draco wanting him to stay, the way he clung to Harry that night… everything that happened afterwards.

_So all this time…_

It seems impossible, but Harry can’t come up with a better explanation. Draco has had feelings for him this whole time.

_But why did he deny it when I asked him?_

Surely, Draco wouldn’t have let him see this if he didn’t want Harry to know.

Harry’s pulse quickens when he sees Draco slipping out of bed and getting changed into his robes. Will Draco show him where he went that night? Harry had been wondering about that, aside from worrying about him. Surely enough, the memory doesn’t dissolve as Draco hurries through the corridors, Harry at his heels. He seems to wander around aimlessly, turning left and right at random until they reach a very familiar corridor on the seventh floor.

 _Did he go to the Room of Requirement?_ Harry asks himself. But Draco doesn’t stop in front of the wall of the hidden room. Instead, he keeps walking and walking, finally coming to a halt in front of the stone gargoyle that guards Dumbledore’s office. Harry doesn’t think he meant to go there, taking in Draco’s astonished expression. The Slytherin stares at the gargoyle for a second before he leans against the wall and sinks down to the ground, hugging his knees. Harry’s heart clenches as he sees tears streaming down his face. Even though he knows it’s pointless, he sits down beside him, wishing he could comfort him.

Draco’s quiet sobs echo off the walls, making them sound ghostly. Then, Harry hears another sound, the sound of the stone gargoyle moving. Draco seems to notice it as well, quickly getting off the floor and wiping his face with his sleeve. Harry senses he wants to make a quick escape, but before he gets a chance, Dumbledore is standing in front of him, smiling at him serenely.

“Ah, Draco,” the Headmaster says in a surprised voice, although something tells Harry he isn’t surprised at all. “Can’t sleep?”

Draco avoids Dumbledore’s eyes, giving no sign of an answer.

“Why don’t you come up for a cup of tea?” The Headmaster stretches out his arm in an inviting gesture, indicating Draco should go up the stairs to his office. Harry watches him closely, doubt clearly visible on his face. He can practically hear Draco debating with himself, and for a second, he thinks Draco will turn around and walk away. Instead, he warily climbs the stairs, Dumbledore following him.

It’s strange, Harry thinks, that his body and his mind are technically in the same room now, even though the current headmaster’s office looks so different from the one he just stepped into.

Dumbledore gestures for Draco to sit down in one of the chairs in front of his desk, taking his own seat and conjuring two cups of tea, a little milk jug and a sugar bowl. Neither of them say anything for several minutes and Harry starts pacing the length of the room without taking his eyes off them. Dumbledore takes a sip from his cup, making an appreciative sound as he puts it back on the saucer with a soft clink. When he clears his throat, Harry stiffens.

“Draco, I’ve thought long and hard about whether or not I should be talking to you about this,” he says in a quiet and steady voice. He leans forward, placing his elbows on the desk and wraps his good hand around the one that had been injured by Marvolo Gaunt's ring. Harry sees Draco staring at it, as if he’s seeing it for the first time. Maybe he is.

“I can see the task Lord Voldemort has burdened you with has been weighing you down,” Dumbledore continues. “That shouldn’t come as a surprise, considering the cruelty he’s demanding from you. But, I have to admit, I am relieved to see that it is troubling you as much as I hoped it would.” His gaze softens over his half-moon spectacles as Draco’s jaw drops. “Yes, I know what he wants you to do. But I also know… you’re not a killer, Draco.”

Draco looks like he’s ready to bolt, probably thinking this is a trap and he’ll be taken into custody by a bunch of Aurors, who have been hiding in this room the whole time. But nothing happens, except for Fawkes stretching his wings and letting out a soft caw.

“I don’t know how the necklace ended up in Miss Bell’s possession or how you delivered the bottle of mead to Professor Slughorn, but these were very half-hearted attempts, I must say.” Dumbledore takes another sip of his tea, encouraging Draco to drink as well. “I’ve been watching you closely this year, Draco, and I think there’s something else, besides my assassination, you’ve kept yourself busy with.”

Draco cringes, almost dropping his cup.

“It’s probably best you don’t tell me the details, it will put you and your loved ones in too much danger. But I want you to know, there are ways we can protect you and your family.”

Draco frowns at his cup and Dumbledore sighs when he slowly shakes his head.

“I understand you’re worried,” he says, “but don’t you think succeeding in your task will put even more loved ones in mortal danger?”

There’s that curious twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes that had always made Harry wonder if the old wizard knew more than he was letting on.

“I think there’s one person in particular, who’s making this especially hard for you. You’re wavering. But, Draco, if I may say so, that’s a good thing.”

Draco stares at him again, open-mouthed, his expression bewildered.

“Please, forgive my bluntness. I seem to forget my manners with old age,” Dumbledore sighs, getting out of his seat. He walks over to one of the windows with his hands crossed behind his back.

“It seems as though my time as headmaster is running out faster than I would have thought,” he ponders. He looks over his shoulder, smiling. “You see, this,” he holds up his injured hand, “is giving me more trouble than I would like. But we can talk about that another time.”

Draco watches him warily as Dumbledore crosses the room, walking straight through Harry.

“Think about what I said. The Order and I, we can help you. I’m not saying it won’t come at a price, but I think, considering everything, it’s the smaller one to pay.” He gestures for Draco to get up and puts a hand on his shoulder. “When the curse is broken, come and find me again and we’ll talk. We’ll find a way.”

Draco looks unsure, but he nods his head ever so slightly before he turns around and walks to the door.

“One last thing, Draco,” Dumbledore says, and Draco’s hand pauses on the door handle. “Harry can’t know about this. At least, not now.”

Harry gasps and almost falls backwards as he emerges from the Pensieve. His mind reels as he grabs the edge of the Headmaster’s desk, steadying himself.

Did Draco go back? Did he talk with Dumbledore? And why hadn’t Dumbledore wanted Harry to know about this?

Feeling more confused by the second, but unable to get answers, Harry decides to watch Snape’s memory. It’s more uncomfortable than watching Draco’s, but, when he’s finished, Harry finds himself more collected and calmer than he was before.

 _So this is it_ , he thinks, his body feeling numb. _I’m going to die._

He stares at the Pensieve, at Snape’s memory, still swirling around in it. Never in a million years would Harry have guessed the doe was his patronus. He doesn’t know how to feel about it, even if the Potions Master helped him in the end.

With the tip of his wand, well, technically Draco’s wand, but it almost feels like his own now, he fishes out the memory and puts it back into the crystal flask. He puts it down on the desk when he suddenly feels something warm on his right side. He shoves his hand into his jacket pocket, his fingers automatically curling around the coin that’s steadily heating up.

Draco has activated it. He’s alive. And he’s asking if Harry is, too.

Harry bites his lip until it hurts. He can’t send an answer. He can’t let Draco think he’s alive when he’s about to walk to his death. It would break his heart.

 _His heart will be broken either way_ , the little voice in Harry’s head points out gloomily.

And suddenly, something occurs to him.

Is that why Dumbledore hadn’t wanted Harry to know that Draco apparently changed sides? That he’s had feelings for Harry for much longer than he assumed? Had Dumbledore really denied him all this information, consequently preventing Harry from being happy, even for just a fraction of time, so it would be easier for him to accept his death sentence? And now what? Should he feel grateful for that? Did Dumbledore really think so little of him? Did Dumbledore think he was that weak? That Harry would choose his own happiness over the happiness of all the people he’d be saving?

Anger courses through him as his eyes fall on the deserted frame of the former Headmaster’s portrait. Maybe it’s a good thing Dumbledore isn’t here right now. Harry would probably regret all the things he’d be saying to him.

_You don’t have time to regret anything._

He presses his lips together as his vision blurs from the tears forming in his eyes. He wishes he could at least see Draco one last time.

_He wouldn’t let you go. He wouldn’t let you do this._

Harry closes his eyes, forcing the tears to brim over.

_It’s not fair. It’s not—_

He shakes his head, trying to get the image of Draco screaming and clinging to his lifeless body out of his mind.

It’s yet another cruel twist of fate, Harry thinks.

In a way, Draco’s nightmare had been a premonition after all.


	14. Chapter 14

Draco tries to ignore the burning in his lungs as he darts through the corridors. The castle seems to be completely empty. 

_Please let him be alive, please let him be alive!_

He dashes down the stairs, almost tripping when he sees two figures swiftly approaching.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Draco gasps. But his relief quickly fades and his eyes widen when he realises the person completing the trio isn’t right behind them.

“Where is he?” Draco calls out frantically. “Where is he?”

“Why, you want to drag him to the forest yourself?” Weasley growls, his wand pointed at Draco’s face.

“Where is he?” Draco bellows, shoving the wand aside.

“As if we’d tell you,” Weasley mutters.

“We don’t know,” Granger sighs.

“Hermione!”

“Oh, hush,” she says. She gives Draco a speculative glance before she speaks again. “I don’t trust you, Malfoy, but I think Harry does. If he wanted you to know—”

“He’s not answering,” Draco interrupts her, showing her the coin. “I tapped it half an hour ago, but he’s not answering. It’s—” He lets out a shuddering breath. “It’s cold.”

Granger and Weasley exchange glances of fear.

“That doesn’t necessarily mean—”

“I have to find him,” Draco whimpers, not caring about Weasley’s arched brow and the look on his face. “When was he last with you?”

Granger bites her lip and starts wringing her hands.

“When we were in the Shrieking Shack, and V— Voldemort killed Professor Snape.”

Draco’s jaw drops. Snape is dead?

“There was, um— Harry collected a memory from him and—”

“Memory,” Draco whispers. He knows where Harry is. At least he thinks he does.

Without a backwards glance, he dashes off, up the stairs. He saw a Pensieve in Dumbledore’s office. The Headmaster was in the middle of putting it away when Draco entered, feeling uneasy.

The stone gargoyle sits beside the spiral staircase, instead of guarding it, and Draco’s heart leaps into his throat. He bursts into the headmaster’s office, his eyes darting into every direction at once.

“Harry?”

He spots the Pensieve on the desk, the vial he gave Harry months ago, sitting beside it.

It feels like every ounce of hope is sucked out of his body, as though a swarm of Dementors is descending on him.

He’s too late. Harry’s gone. The fool is probably on his way to the Forbidden Forest.

Draco falls to his hands and knees, the coin trapped between the carpet and his left hand, tears cascading down his face. He slams his fist on the ground, his body shaking.

He’s too late.

It’s only a small consolation that Harry has seen Draco’s memories. He almost wishes the Gryffindor hadn’t saved him from the Fiendfyre. He tried to find Harry then, too, but had been intercepted by Crabbe and Goyle. Confronting Harry had been risky and even though he had known he couldn’t blow his cover in front of them just yet, he was seconds away from turning around and pointing his wand at his former friends.

 _He should have left me in there_ , Draco thinks, feeling like his heart is about to burst. _He should have left me there to die with Crabbe._

His arms and knees give way and Draco collapses onto the floor. It’s like the Sectumsempra-curse all over again. It feels like his chest is being cut open.

_I should have told him sooner. I should have—_

He buries his face into the carpet, sobbing uncontrollably. The pain is almost unbearable, like a dagger stabbing him continuously, mercilessly. Even when the Dark Lord tortured him, he hadn’t felt this gutted.

_How am I supposed to live in a world where Harry Potter doesn’t exist?_

All this time, Draco had been dead set on saving his parents, he hadn’t thought of protecting the person _he_ had protected his heart from for almost as long as he can remember.

And now, the Dark Lord has taken that person away from him.

Draco screws up his already swollen eyes. The tears won’t stop. There’s a strange sound filling the room, but Draco only registers deep in the back of his mind that it’s coming from him.

Why had he wasted so much time hating Harry? It hadn't been how he really felt.

“Draco.”

Draco’s eyes snap open and he realises he’s shaking. He slowly lifts his head, looking around the room with bleary eyes. There’s nobody there.

“Draco,” the low voice says again, and Draco looks up. There, in the ornate frame that had been empty when he entered the headmaster’s office, is Dumbledore, gazing at him with a saddened expression.

“I’m sorry, Draco. There was no other way.”

“What?” Draco croaks, his voice barely audible. Dumbledore sighs and slowly runs a hand through his long beard.

“There were certain things that needed to be done, certain things that still need to happen so Lord Voldemort can be defeated. For good.”

Draco doesn’t follow. The loud buzzing in his ears makes it impossible to think straight.

“What are you talking about?” he manages to say, shaking his head. Dumbledore doesn’t answer at first, not until Draco’s eyes find his.

“Harry needs to die,” Dumbledore says, emphatically.

Draco’s face twists in pain and his head hits the carpet again.

“Listen to me, Draco,” the former Headmaster implores. “You need to understand—”

“NO,” Draco yells. He doesn’t want to understand.

“Harry needs to die. As long as he’s alive, Lord Voldemort can’t be killed.”

Draco shakes his head furiously, wishing Dumbledore would stop talking.

“A part of Voldemort’s soul lives inside him. It needs to be destroyed. Harry knows what’s at stake, he—”

“He’s sacrificing himself,” Draco chokes between sobs. “And you knew all along. You knew! You could have found another way!”

“No,” Dumbledore replies. The finality in his voice makes Draco shiver. “Nobody regrets this more than I do,” he continues quietly. “Harry’s bravery—”

“Don’t,” Draco whimpers. “Please stop. STOP!”

He shuts his eyes again, letting out a wail that sounds outlandish to his ears. It’s as though his body tries to find an outlet for all the pain, threatening to burst if it holds it in any longer.

Draco has no idea how long he’s lying there, how long he’s sobbing and screaming. His fingers curl around Harry’s coin, the only thing he has left of him. His chest tightens at the realisation, putting too much pressure on his lungs.

How can he be in so much pain when he has never felt more empty inside?

He clutches the coin to his chest, coiling himself up. He starts rocking back and forth, wishing he would just pass out.

_Why Potter? Why him? Why is he the one that has to die? Why is he the one I—_

Stars explode in front of Draco’s eyes, making him feel dizzy. This isn’t fair. None of this is fair.

“Albus,” Draco hears somebody hiss. He opens his eyes, looks around disoriented, until he sees an old wizard in another portrait gesticulate agitatedly. “Albus, the boy!”

While Draco has no idea what the wizard is talking about, Dumbledore’s eyes widen. Without another word, he vanishes from the frame, as does the other wizard. Draco is all alone again. Good. He’d rather be alone. He’ll probably be alone for the rest of his life.

He tries to prop himself up on his elbows, but fails.

_“Albus, the boy!”_

What does that mean? Draco has no doubt which boy he was talking about, but… what? What happened?

_Oh— No. NO!_

The realisation pierces him like the scream of a banshee. Unhelpfully, his mind provides the words he doesn’t want to hear.

_“Albus, the boy! He’s— He’s dead.”_

Before Draco can break down in tears once more, he’s distracted by something else.

There’s an ear blasting bang and it’s almost like the whole castle is shaking. Draco scrambles off the floor, getting to his knees, his eyes wide in terror. Everything is quiet for a moment, except for Draco’s frantic heartbeat, before he hears blustering screams. Fear bubbles up inside him. Something’s happened. But what?

His forehead creases as the commotion outside seems to be getting more chaotic. The thing is, the screaming and roaring almost sound like… cheers.

Before Draco can process that, his eyes dart down to his left hand, where his fingers are stilled curled tightly around the coin. The coin that’s steadily, but unmistakably, heating up.

 _It can’t be_ , Draco thinks, his jaw dropping.

_Someone… Someone else must have found Harry’s coin._

But they wouldn’t know how to activate it, would they?

_It can’t be. It can’t be!_

He tries to push down the hope that’s quickly starting to rise in him. He can’t let himself hope. Still, he jumps up as swiftly as he can, ignoring the queasiness that makes it hard to see and stumbles out of the headmaster’s office.

His own footsteps boom inside his ears, mingling with the sound of his racing heart and the screams and laughter that keep getting louder and louder. He zooms through the Entrance Hall, his eyes barely taking in the destruction around him until he finally steps outside and finds himself amidst students, teachers and parents crying, laughing and hugging each other.

His eyes dart around frantically. There are too many people, too many black robes huddled up to one another to see past them. Draco pushes through the crowd, craning his neck and blinking against the blinding morning sun.

In his heart, he knows it’s pointless. Harry can’t be alive. Dumbledore said he needed to die so the Dark Lord could be killed. If all these people, and their celebratory state, are any indication, it seems like the deed is done.

_How can they even celebrate when—_

Draco stops dead, his mind going completely blank. Just a few feet away stand Granger and Weasley, entangled in a tight embrace. But that’s not what makes Draco’s mouth go dry, what makes his knees wobbly and his vision blurry. There, mingled with bushy brown and flaming red, is a mess of jet black hair.

“Potter,” Draco breathes, his mind not quite believing what his eyes are seeing. He’s not sure if it’s his ears that have blocked out all the noises around him or if the turmoil has actually died down. He sways as he takes a step forward. Granger and Weasley slowly step aside, finally allowing Draco to take a look at the face he never thought he’d see again.

The sight of Harry, in one piece, breathing, smiling shyly at him, is almost too much. As if in trance, he darts forward. Harry stays rooted to the spot, but opens his arms as his smile grows bigger.

“YOU ARSEHOLE!” Draco screams, slamming into Harry. He’s on the verge of tears again as he repeatedly whacks Harry’s chest with his fists.

“Ow! Draco!”

“YOU ARSEHOLE!”

“Draco, what— Ow!”

“YOU COMPLETE WANKER!”

“Draco! Stop!”

Draco struggles against Harry’s hands around his wrists.

“Calm down,” Harry begs him. “You’re giving people the wrong impression.”

Dazedly, Draco looks around to find several wands pointed at him.

“It’s not what you think,” Granger chimes in. “He’s not— um—”

“Honestly, we should have known this would happen,” Weasley mutters. “It’s been two seconds since Harry came back from the dead and they’re already fighting again. Typical.”

“Stay out of this, Weasley,” Draco growls.

Weasley rolls his eyes. “Why can’t you just kiss him like any normal person would?”

“Excuse me?” Draco’s jaw drops to the ground and he feels himself panic as a murmur goes through the crowd.

“You knew?” Harry asks, sounding incredulous.

“Of course I knew,” Weasley says, irritatedly. “You’re not as good at sneaking around as you might think, mate. Good thing I was deaf.” He shudders.

“All this time, you knew and you didn’t say anything?”

Weasley shrugs. “I figured you’d tell me if you wanted to talk about it. And I didn’t know what was going on with _him_.” He jerks his chin towards Draco. “I thought it was only one-sided.”

“Um… actually,” Harry says, looking very uncomfortable, “I’d rather not discuss that here. Come with me?” He offers Draco his hand and adds a “Please?” when Draco just stares at it. Draco slowly nods and lets himself be dragged off, into the castle, trying to ignore all the outraged looks that follow them.

Harry leads him into an empty classroom and lets out a sigh as he shuts the door.

“So,” he murmurs, sounding nervous. Draco stares at him, his mind still reeling.

“I thought you were dead,” he whispers, his chest still aching, as though he can’t quite believe this is actually real. As though he’s still waiting to be woken up from a dream.

“Yeah,” Harry simply says, shuffling his feet. “Technically, I was.”

“I don’t understand,” Draco says with a frown.

“It’s a long story. The important thing is, I’m not anymore.”

Harry moves closer, until their chests are touching, his gaze warm and soft.

“I’m really glad you kept this,” he says, squeezing Draco’s hand. Confusion washes over Draco until he realises Harry’s talking about the coin, trapped between their palms. He feels heat blooming on his cheeks, even more so when Harry smiles at him.

Tentatively, and still a little dazed, Draco moves his free hand up to Harry’s face. His eyes follow the movement of his fingers as he slowly taps the corner of Harry’s mouth twice.

“As if you have to ask,” Harry says in an almost chastising tone.

“No,” Draco murmurs, holding Harry’s gaze. “I do.”

“Draco,” Harry begins, but Draco silences him with a look. He taps Harry’s mouth again, his finger lingering on his bottom lip. His heart almost jumps out of his chest when Harry whispers, “Of course.”

Without wasting another second, Draco leans forward, crashing his mouth on Harry’s and burying his hands in his hair. He faintly hears the coin roll across the floor, but is much more captivated by Harry’s hands on his back and the feel of the Gryffindor’s lips against his. He tilts his head, pulling Harry closer to him and shivers at the first touch of their tongues. Harry lets out a little sound of appreciation.

“I missed you so much,” he murmurs into Draco’s mouth. “I dreamed about you so many times. It was torture.” Draco grunts in agreement. “From now on, I’m going to kiss you every day, every hour. I don’t care if you think that’s soppy or if people will think I’m a fucking twerp, I—”

Draco’s eyes snap open and he moves away from Harry so fast, the other boy stumbles.

“No,” he breathes, his stomach plummeting. “You— You can’t do that.”

Harry blinks at him, confusion written all over his face.

“What?”

“I— You can’t—”

Draco can’t believe he didn’t think of this sooner. Why had this never occurred to him?

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks, his tone urgent.

“We— We can’t be together,” he whispers, the harsh reality finally crashing down on him, smothering him.

“What?”

Harry’s eyes are huge as he stares at Draco in bewilderment.

“We— I mean, we can never be together… officially,” he says quietly. “I can’t— The way I—” He lets out a shuddering breath. “I can’t be— I can’t be with another wizard. It’s not—”

“It’s not what your family had in mind for you?” Harry says, arching an eyebrow. “You’re joking, right?”

“You don’t understand,” Draco says quietly. “I can’t just— It’s not— I mean, I don’t want to— But… we can’t be anything more than acquaintances in public. It would bring too much shame on my family.”

“Shame?” Harry echoes, furiously. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? I just died! Do you hear me? I JUST DIED! AND YOU DO THIS? Being with me would be shameful?”

“ _I_ don’t think that,” Draco says, furrowing his brows.

“Right, it’s just what mummy and daddy have been drilling into your brain,” Harry mutters bitterly.

“I can’t change who I am,” Draco retorts. “We’d both have to… make sacrifices.” Draco’s face twists in disgust at his own words. “Which is why I think it would be better if—

“If what?” Harry growls, suddenly looking murderous. Draco flinches, but tries to keep his expression even. “If you don’t want to be with me, just say it, don’t make some stupid excuse—”

“You don’t get it,” Draco says, wringing his hands. “It’s not an excuse. And that’s not what I’m saying. I— I’m giving you an out.”

“Maybe I don’t want an out,” Harry says stubbornly. “I want you.” He narrows his eyes and Draco shivers at being scrutinised like that. “After everything I saw in the Pensieve, I thought—” Harry presses his lips together, as if he’s trying to keep himself from saying something he’ll regret. “If you’re doing this because you think you have to protect me—”

“This is exactly why this won’t work,” Draco sighs. “You think I’m doing this for you, but I’m not some selfless hero who saves the day.”

Harry frowns at him. “What does that even mean?”

Draco doesn’t want to say it out loud. He doesn’t want to admit to his fears. What if he and Harry do get together, only for Harry to realise he deserves so much better? It’s not exactly something he wants to shout from the rooftops.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs, turning sideways. “All I’m saying is, if you— If you and me— If we keep seeing each other, there will be drawbacks. You’ll have to be prepared for that.”

Draco’s heart clenches when he sees Harry’s tortured expression. They both stay silent for a moment, but when Harry looks like he wants to move closer to him, Draco steps back.

“Don’t decide right now,” he says, forcing his voice to sound even. “Think about it. Think about it and… let me know.”

Turning around and walking out of that classroom requires so much more strength than Draco has at the moment. But he has no other choice. Everything he’s told Harry is true. He can’t give him what he deserves. And even though Draco usually doesn’t have much against being selfish, this is different. He doesn’t want to sabotage Harry’s happiness. Walking away is the right thing to do.

_Ugh, again with the right thing. That Gryffindor is rubbing off on you._

Draco leans his forehead against one of the windows. The cool glass feels good against his skin. He watches the grass swaying to and fro in the soft breeze, the sunbeams dancing on the surface of the Great Lake. Everything looks so peaceful now.

Harry has done the impossible. He defeated the Dark Lord. And he survived.

They’re free now.

Harry is free.

And Draco will be damned if he allows the bloody fool to trap himself again, even if he might think it’s worth it.

It’s not.

Draco is not worth it.

He closes his eyes, unleashing all the bitterness inside of him. There’s no point in holding it back anymore.

It’s finally over.


	15. Epilogue

“You’re a conceited bastard!”

“You’re trying to avoid the question.”

“That doesn’t change—”

“Did you, or did you not, send a letter to my mother?”

“I did, but it was just—”

“I can’t believe this. How many times have I told you—”

“I didn’t tell her about us!”

“I told you to _never_ contact her!”

“I was only trying—”

“Oh, I know what you were trying to do, you idiot! _Dear Draco, your friend, Harry Potter, tells me you’re having terrible nightmares again._ Does that sound like she hasn’t figured out we’re sleeping together?”

“Hey, that’s not all we do!”

“I can’t believe you’re actually this stupid! Now she’ll start parading a bunch of Pure-blood witches, for me to—”

“WHAT?” Harry blurts, feeling an uncomfortable prickle in his throat.

Draco simply rolls his eyes. “I told you this would happen. But you never listen to me. You never—”

“So… what? You’re going to marry a witch?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco says in a condescending tone. Harry rakes his fingers through his hair.

“But you will. You’ll tell me you have no choice. Because your fucked up family will—”

“Oh, of course I’m the one with the fucked up family.”

“ _My_ family doesn’t force me—”

“No, they just hate _me_!”

“BECAUSE YOU’RE A CONCEITED BASTARD!”

“Says the prat with the biggest hero complex in history!”

“I saved _your_ arse, didn’t I?”

“You keep forgetting you almost got me killed several times, as well!”

Harry scowls at Draco, his chest heaving.

“I didn’t forget,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Be that as it may,” Draco drawls, “it doesn’t change the past.”

“How long are you going to make me suffer for it then? Because I’m sick of—”

“THEN LEAVE,” Draco yells. He grabs a vase from the windowsill and smashes it on the ground. Harry stares at him, his mouth hanging open. “I told you this would happen,” Draco says agitatedly. “We keep having the same fight over and over again.”

Harry bites the inside of his cheek. “I don’t want us to fight, but you’re making it—”

Draco snarls, looking like he’s going to lunge at Harry. “Piss off, I don’t want to see you right now.”

“No, I’m not going anywhere. And honestly, you should—”

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

“As if you’d ever do anything I ask you to!”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

They scowl at each other, hands balled into fists.

Harry knows this will last another two hours. Well, almost two hours if he remembers it correctly. He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose.

_“Harry? Harry, where are you? Are you— What are you doing?”_

Harry makes a face, putting his glasses back on. He sighs, screwing up his eyes and concentrating hard. When he opens them again, he blinks against the glare of his desk lamp.

“And I thought you were being productive,” Draco says in a teasing tone. “What were you looking at?”

Before Harry can stop him, he picks up the vial and looks at the date, scribbled on in Harry’s messy handwriting.

“January 1999?” His pale eyebrows disappear into his fringe. “That’s not a happy memory.”

Harry sighs. “No, it definitely isn’t.”

“Why were you looking at it?” Draco asks quietly. His voice is low and Harry knows he’s doing it deliberately, to hide his apprehension.

“I was just… feeling nostalgic, I guess.”

“Nostalgic?” Draco echoes skeptically. “Are you saying you miss fighting with me?”

Harry chuckles, shaking his head. “Merlin, no. I’d say we’ve still got that covered. It’s just… we’ve been through quite a lot, haven’t we?”

“That’s the understatement of the century,” Draco snorts. “But honestly, if you’re feeling nostalgic…” He opens one of the desk drawers, where he and Harry keep their memories. “You should… you should look at this one.” With the tip of his wand, he puts Harry’s memory back in its little vial and pours his own into the Pensieve. “Come on,” he says with a smirk, and they both dive in.

_“Fuck! Potter! Ah!”_

The room is only dimly lit, but Harry doesn’t need to see much to know where they are.

_“Merlin, Potter, don’t stop!”_

“Draco,” Harry says, nearly rolling his eyes.

“Shhh, the best part is about to come.”

Harry sticks out his tongue at Draco, watching the scene in front of him through narrowed eyes. He has no idea why Draco enjoys watching them so much. It’s fucking awkward.

 _“Um, Draco…” Harry murmurs._ _“I— I’ve been thinking.”_

_“Really, Potter? You want to talk now?” Draco gestures to his cock, Harry’s face inches away from it._

_“Err… yeah. That’s kind of what I want to talk about. I thought it might be nice to, err… err… do… other stuff as well.”_

_“Other stuff?” Draco says, raising an eyebrow._ _“Like what?”_

_“You know…” Harry runs his thumb over the tip of Draco’s cock, making him gasp. “You know.” Harry looks at Draco expectantly, biting his lip._

_“Really?” Draco says, his eyes wide. “You want us to—”_

_“Yeah. Um… Do you— I mean, do you want to?”_

_Draco snorts and grabs Harry’s forearms, pulling him into a kiss. “You’re such an idiot, Potter.”_

_Harry hums appreciatively against Draco’s mouth and starts laughing when Draco rolls them over._

“I still can’t believe you let me fuck you that night,” Draco murmurs.

“Would you rather I hadn’t?”

Draco makes a face. “That’s not what I mean. It’s just… At that point, I didn’t understand how you weren’t disgusted by me.” Draco sounds like he still doesn’t understand.

“Well, we were a bit naive back then, weren’t we? But I was never disgusted by you.”

“Still, it was… the first time. For both of us. I always thought you would have wanted to—”

“It was nice, not being in control for once,” Harry shrugs. “Or rather, not having to be.”

Draco sniggers. “Oh yeah, I remember the first time you _were_ in control. Merlin, that was a disaster!”

“Hey, I was nervous, okay? Besides, you lasted what, five minutes?”

Draco snarls, but in the teasing way that always makes Harry laugh.

_“Fuck, Draco! Do it now! I’m ready! Come on!”_

“Um… we’re not actually going to watch that again, are we?”

Draco lets out an exasperated sigh, but takes Harry’s hand and flicks his wand.

“I’ll never forget the way you looked at me that night,” Draco murmurs as he puts the vial back in the drawer and brushes a finger against Harry’s cheek.

“And you mock me for being soppy,” Harry chuckles. His expression turns serious and he takes out another memory. “You know what I’ll never forget?” He pours it into the Pensieve and tugs Draco forward.

_“I said, I don’t want to talk about it!”_

_“You never want to talk about it!”_

_“Yeah, but you don’t seem to be getting the message!”_

_“I think we_ need _to talk about it, Draco. Tell me what the Death Eaters did to you.”_

_“No.”_

_“I can handle it. I—”_

_“Good for you.”_

_“I think it would help you to—”_

_“You’re not my fucking Mind Healer!”_

_“Well, maybe it would be a good idea to—”_

_“Don’t you dare finish that sentence! I don’t need any help.”_

_“Draco, it’s getting worse.”_

_“It’ll get better.”_

_“How? You keep pushing me away. I never know what you’re thinking these days.”_

_“You want to know what I’m thinking? I think it’s only a matter of time until the mighty Saviour of the bloody wizarding world realises it’s too damn hard being with a Death Eater! I think this was doomed from the beginning! I wish you would have let me burn in that fire!”_

_“Ugh, me too!”_

Harry shudders as the room goes dead silent. Neither of them seem to be even breathing.

_“I— I didn’t mean that,” Harry stutters. “I’m sorry, Draco, I—”_

_“No, I think you did. You’re finally telling the truth for once.”_

_“No! How could you even think that? I’m sorry, it just came out, I wasn’t thinking, I—”_

_“Don’t bother,” Draco says, turning around._

_“No, Draco, please, you can’t just—”_

_“SHUT UP! This was a mistake. I knew it. I knew it!”_

_“Fuck! Draco, come back here!”_

Harry can’t bare to watch any more of this and takes them back to his study. Draco is silent for a long time, his gaze on the Pensieve and his right hand on his left forearm. It’s still there, the Dark Mark, but it’s not as shocking anymore. Instead of black, it turned to an angry red after Voldemort’s death. Now, it’s almost pinkish. Draco still squirms whenever Harry’s fingers come anywhere near it. He still hasn’t let him touch it properly. There’s no point, he keeps saying.

“I don’t know why you keep torturing yourself like this,” Draco murmurs quietly. “We should throw that memory away.”

Harry sighs, rubbing his chin. “It was our first break up.”

“You deserved that,” Draco says. But his tone isn’t as cutting as his words. “I still can’t believe it took you four months to come looking for me.”

Harry huffs. “I looked for you the whole time! I told you that! But you went to fucking France without telling me.”

“Yeah, well— No, you know what, let’s not get into that. It’s in the past. I forgave you, you forgave me.”

Harry nods, Draco’s horror-struck expression from the Pensieve still lingering on his mind.

“Unless,” Draco says, giving Harry an appraising look, “you’re trying to tell me something with these memories?”

“What?”

“Are you trying to break up with me again?”

“Draco,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “I think three break ups are enough.”

“Four,” Draco corrects him. “I broke up with you last week because you told Weasley he could wear that horrible Cannons shirt tomorrow.”

“He’s not actually going to do that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Um… no.”

“I’m telling you, if he turns up wearing that shirt, I’m leaving you.”

Harry snorts, sitting down in his chair and pulling Draco onto his lap. He’s still such a lightweight, but, Harry notices with a grin, he’s put on a few extra pounds in the last few weeks. Probably from all the cake testing. Harry nuzzles into his neck and smiles when Draco places a kiss on his hair.

“We should end this evening on a happy note,” Draco remarks and starts rummaging through the drawer. “I’m thinking… your 21st birthday.”

“Hmm,” Harry hums. “That was a good day. Those cupcakes were delicious.”

“As were you,” Draco says, his voice low and seductive. “It’s been a while since I‘ve licked frosting out of your belly button.”

Harry grins, waggling his eyebrows.

“But your arse was even more delicious. It still is.” Draco leans down and Harry hums again when Draco starts kissing his neck. Harry’s hands wander up Draco’s thigh and he groans when Draco softly bites his shoulder.

“Come on, let’s go to—”

“Hey, I didn’t know this was in here,” Harry exclaims, immediately reaching for the little trinket he just spotted.

“Oh, that old thing,” Draco sniggers when Harry holds out the “Potter stinks” badge to him.

“Which proves you’re the real sop in this relationship,” Harry smirks. He presses the badge and the words “Potter stinks” dissolve into “but I love him anyway”. It had been the first time Draco had said it. Well, technically he didn't say it. Until this day, he has never said it out loud, but Harry doesn’t need to hear it to know how he feels.

As if Draco just read his mind, he squirms in Harry’s lap and furrows his brows.

“You know I do, right?”

“I know,” Harry says, smiling at him and brushing a thumb over his cheek.

“But…” Draco seems thoughtful as he peers at the drawer. “Do you think we’re making a mistake?”

“Draco, it took us 13 years to get here. I think the fuck not,” he almost growls. “Are _you_ having second thoughts?”

Their eyes lock and Draco cocks his head. Before Harry can say anything else, Draco buries his hands in his hair and starts kissing him as though they haven’t seen each other in days.

“Draco,” Harry mumbles. “Draco, you haven’t answered my question.”

He moans when Draco tugs at his hair and presses himself closer to Harry.

“Draco!”

Draco sighs and slowly pulls away from him. He lets one of his hands slide down Harry’s arm and then Harry feels him tap his hand once. No. No second thoughts.

Harry lets out a little sigh in relief and leans back in the chair.

“You’re really ready for this?”

Draco rolls his eyes and taps his hand twice. Yes.

“You’re absolutely sure you want to do this?” Harry asks, trying to keep his expression serious, even though he knows Draco can already see the grin that’s starting to take over his face. Draco gives him one of those crooked smiles that make Harry melt every time. He taps his hand again. Twice.

“You do realise you’re going to have to say the actual words tomorrow, right?”

Draco looks at the ceiling in exasperation.

“Otherwise it won’t count,” Harry insists, pulling Draco closer to him again. Draco groans in frustration and curls his fingers around Harry’s throat, as if he’s going to strangle him. He brings their foreheads together, fixing Harry with a glare.

“Yes, you bloody wanker,” he grumbles. But then his face softens and Harry grins stupidly as he kisses him again. “Yes, I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On how I approached the theme of consent:
> 
> I’ve been toying with the idea of giving consent with a seemingly simple gesture for a while now. The thing is, even a smile, or a look can sometimes be interpreted completely wrong. In so many situations, the word “yes” is crucial. But what happens if a person can’t speak? I guess I made it unnecessarily hard for myself, when I decided to make Harry blind, in addition to Draco’s muteness. But, somehow, it seemed too easy to have a mute Draco, who could simply nod to give his consent. Two taps on the back of the hand might seem very silly, but I grew very fond of that little gesture, that came to mean so much more as the story progressed. By giving consent you’re automatically telling the other person you trust them, and to me, that aspect was very important. As well as appreciating that trust, because I feel like we take that for granted way too often.


End file.
